Little 


CONINGSBY 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 


.'.    BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR    .'. 

THE     TEST     OF     SCARLET: 
A  ROMANCE  OF  REALITY 

LIVING  BAYONETS:    A  RECORD  OF 
THE  LAST  PUSH 

OUT   TO   WIN:      THE    STORY   OF 
AMERICA  IN  FRANCE 

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
CARRY  ON:     LETTERS  IN  WARTIME 
SLAVES  OF  FREEDOM 
THE  RAFT 

THE  GARDEN  WITHOUT  WALLS 
THE  SEVENTH  CHRISTMAS 
THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY 
THE  ROAD  TO  AVALON 

FLORENCE  ON  A  CERTAIN 
NIGHT 

THE   WORKER  AND  OTHER 
POEMS 


The  Little  House 


THE 

LITTLE    HOUSE 


BY 

CONINGSBY    DAWSON 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY 

STELLA    LANGDALE 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT • 1920 
BY    THE    INTERNATIONAL    MAGAZINE    COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT -1920 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


THE     PLIMPTON    P  X  ES  S  •  N  O  K  WO  O  D  •  11  A  S  S  •  U  •  S  •  A 


SRLE 
URL 


oc 


TO 
THE  LITTLE  LADY 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Little  House Frontispiece 

"We  mutter  among  ourselves  .  .  .  beneath 

the  starlight"  .  .  .  Facing  page  12 
"  Big  Ben,  with  his  sweet  tenor  voice  boom- 
ing out  the  hours" 16 

"The  little  boy  stood  by  the  window  with 

his  legs  astraddle" 30 

"Hard  on  his  heels  our  aerial  cavalry  followed 

him  across  the  Channel" 46 

"The  old  grey  church  with  its  graveyard  at 

the  back" 54 

"One  doesn't  talk  much  of  what  happened 

at  the  Front" 102 

"In  flickering  pin-points  of  incandescence, 

street-lamps  wakened" 108 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

CHAPTER   I 

|,  THE  little  house,  tell  this  story. 
It  was  lived  within  my  walls;  not 
a  line  is  invented  and  it  was  I, 
by  my  interfering,  who  brought 
about  the  happy  ending.  Who  wants  a  story 
that  does  not  end  happily,  especially  a 
Christmas  story?  To  have  been  responsible 
for  the  happy  ending  is  pretty  nearly  as 
clever  as  to  have  made  the  story  up  out 
of  one's  own  head  or,  as  we  houses  say, 
out  of  one's  own  walls. 

Perhaps  you  never  heard  before  of  a  house 
telling  a  story.  If  that  be  so,  it  is  because 
you  don't  listen  or  because  you  go  to  bed  too 
early.  Unlike  people,  we  houses  sleep  all 
day  long;  but  after  midnight  we  wake  up 
and  talk.  When  the  clock  strikes  twelve, 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

our  stairs  begin  to  crack  and  our  windows 
to  rattle  and  our  floors  to  creak.  If  you  ever 
hear  these  sounds,  don't  be  frightened;  they 
simply  mean  that  the  kind  old  walls  that 
shelter  you  have  begun  to  remember  and  to 
think.  And  we  have  so  many  things  to 
remember  and  to  think  about,  especially 
we  old  houses  who  have  been  standing  for 
almost  two  hundred  years.  We  have  seen 
so  much;  we  have  been  the  friends  of  so  many 
generations.  More  little  children  have  been 
born  beneath  our  roofs  than  we  have  stairs 
on  which  to  count.  We  reckon  things  on 
our  stairs,  just  as  people  reckon  things  on 
their  fingers.  When  our  stairs  crack  after 
midnight,  it's  usually  because  we're  counting 
the  births  and  love-makings  and  marriages 
we  have  watched.  We  very  often  get  them 
wrong  because  there  are  so  many  of  them. 
Then  the  doors  and  windows  and  floors  will 
chip  in  to  correct  us.  "Ha,"  a  window  will 
rattle,  "you've  forgotten  the  little  girl  who 
used  to  gaze  through  my  panes  in  1760  or 
thereabouts."  One  of  the  doors  will  swing 

[12] 


We  mutter  among  ourselves    .     .     .     beneath  the  starlight " 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

slowly  on  its  hinges  and,  if  anyone  disputes 
with  it,  will  bang,  shouting  angrily,  "Wrong 
again  —  all  wrong."  Then  the  walls  and 
the  windows  and  the  doors  and  the  floors  all 
start  whispering,  trying  to  add  up  correctly 
the  joys  and  sorrows  they  have  witnessed 
in  the  years  beyond  recall.  When  that  hap- 
pens, if  you're  awake  and  listening,  you'll 
hear  us  start  adding  afresh,  from  the  lowest 
to  the  topmost  stair. 

I  am  a  London  house  and  a  very  little 
house,  standing  in  a  fashionable  square  near 
Hyde  Park.  I  have  known  my  ups  and 
downs.  Once  was  the  time  when  I  was 
almost  in  the  country  and  the  link-boys  used 
to  make  a  fuss  at  having  to  escort  my  lady 
so  far  in  her  sedan-chair.  It's  a  long  way  to 
the  country  now,  for  the  city  has  spread  out 
miles  beyond  me.  Within  sight  through  the 
trees  at  the  end  of  the  square  red  motor- 
buses  pass,  bumping  their  way  rowdily  down 
to  Hammersmith  and  Kew.  In  my  young 
days  these  places  were  villages,  but  I  am 
told  they  are  full  of  noises  now.  I  have  at 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

least  escaped  that,  for  our  square  is  a  back- 
water of  quiet  and  leads  to  nowhere,  having 
an  entrance  only  at  one  end.  All  the  houses 
in  the  square  were  built  at  the  same  time  as 
I  was,  which  makes  things  companionable. 
We  all  look  very  much  alike,  with  tiny  areas, 
three  stone  steps  leading  up  from  the  pave- 
ment, one  window  blinking  out  from  the 
ground-floor,  two  blinking  out  from  each  of 
the  other  floors  and  a  verandah  running 
straight  across  us.  In  summer-time  the 
verandah  is  gay  with  flowers.  Our  only 
difference  is  the  colour  we  are  painted,  es- 
pecially the  colour  of  our  doors.  Mine  is 
white;  but  some  of  our  neighbours'  are  blue, 
some  green,  some  red.  We're  very  proud  of 
the  front-doors  in  our  square.  In  the  middle 
stands  a  railed-in  garden,  to  which  none  but 
our  owners  have  access.  Its  trees  are  as 
ancient  as  ourselves.  Behind  us,  so  hidden 
that  it  is  almost  forgotten,  stands  the  grey 
parish-church,  surrounded  by  a  graveyard  in 
which  many  of  the  people  who  have  been 
merry  in  us  rest. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

For  some  years  we  were  what  is  known  as 
a  "gone  down  neighborhood,"  till  a  gentleman 
who  writes  books  bought  us  cheap,  put  us 
in  repair  and  rented  us  to  his  friends.  This 
has  made  us  very  select;  since  then  we  have 
become  again  fashionable. 

Now  you  know  all  that  is  necessary  to 
form  a  mental  picture  of  us.  Because  we 
are  so  small,  we  are  sometimes  spoken  of  as 
"Dolls*  House  Square."  All  the  things  that 
I  shall  tell  you  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  wit- 
nessed, for  houses  have  to  spend  their  lives 
always  in  the  one  place  —  they  cannot  ride 
in  taxis  and  move  about.  We  gain  our  knowl- 
edge of  how  the  world  is  changing  by  listen- 
ing to  the  conversations  of  people  who  inhabit 
us;  when  night  has  fallen  we  mutter  among 
ourselves,  passing  on  to  one  another  beneath 
the  starlight  down  the  lamp-lit  streets  the  gos- 
sip we  have  overheard.  Whatever  of  impor- 
tance we  miss,  the  churchbells  tell  us.  Big 
Ben,  with  his  sweet  tenor  voice,  booming 
out  the  hours,  is  in  this  respect  particularly 
thoughtful. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

So  now,  having  explained  myself,  I  come 
to  my  story  of  the  little  lady  who  needed 
to  be  loved,  but  did  not  know  it,  and  the 
wounded  officer  who  wanted  rest. 


[16] 


"Big  Ben,  with  bis  sweet  tenor  voice  booming  out  the  hours  " 


CHAPTER  II 


CHAPTER  II 

JHE  little  lady  who  needed  to  be 
loved,  but  did  not  know  it,  dis- 
covered me  quite  by  accident. 
This  story  is  a  series  of  acci- 
dents; if  it  had  not  been  for  the  if  s  and  the 
perhaps  s  and  the  possibilities  there  wouldn't 
have  been  any  story  to  tell. 

I  was  empty  when  she  found  me,  for  my 
late  tenants  had  grown  frightened  and  had 
moved  into  the  country  on  account  of  air- 
raids. They  said  that  I  was  too  near  the 
giant  searchlights  and  anti-aircraft  guns  of 
Hyde  Park  Corner  to  be  healthy.  If  they 
weren't  killed  by  bombs,  sooner  or  later  they 
would  be  struck  by  our  own  expended  shell- 
cases  that  came  toppling  from  two  miles  out 
of  the  clouds.  So  they  had  made  their  exit 
hurriedly  in  November,  taking  all  their  furni- 
ture and  leaving  me  to  spend  my  one-hundred- 

[19] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

and-ninety-eighth  Christmas  in  the  company 
of  a  caretaker. 

It  was  shortly  before  Christmas  when  I 
first  saw  her.  Night  had  settled  peacefully 
down;  it  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  the 
maroons  and  sirens  began  to  give  warning 
that  the  enemy  was  approaching.  In  an 
instant,  like  a  lamp  extinguished,  the  lights 
of  London  flickered  and  sank.  Down  the 
forests  of  streets  innumerable  doors  swiftly 
opened  and  people  came  pattering  out.  Drag- 
ging half-clad  children  by  the  hand  and  carry- 
ing babies  snatched  up  from  their  warm  beds, 
they  commenced  to  run  hither  and  thither, 
seeking  the  faint  red  lights  of  shelters,  where 
cellars  and  overhead  protection  might  be 
found.  Policemen,  mounted  on  bicycles,  rode 
up  and  down  the  thoroughfares,  blowing 
whistles.  Ambulances  dashed  by,  tooting 
horns  and  clanging  bells.  From  far  and  near 
out  of  the  swamp  of  darkness  rose  a  medley 
of  panic  and  sound.  Prodding  the  sky,  like 
detectives  with  lanterns,  searchlights  hunted 
and  turned  back  the  edges  of  the  clouds.  Then 

[20] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

ominously,  with  solemn  anger,  the  guns  opened 
up  and  in  fierce  defiance  the  first  bomb  fell. 
The  pattering  of  feet  ceased  suddenly.  Streets 
grew  forlorn  and  empty.  The  commotion  of 
living  and  the  terror  of  dying  were  trans- 
ferred from  the  earth  to  the  air. 

I  was  standing  deserted  with  my  door  wide 
open,  for  at  the  first  signs  of  clamour  the  old 
woman,  who  was  supposed  to  take  care  of 
me,  had  hobbled  up  from  her  basement  and 
out  on  to  the  pavement  in  search  of  the  near- 
est Tube  Station.  In  her  fear  for  her  safety, 
she  had  forgotten  to  close  my  door,  so  there 
I  stood  with  the  damp  air  drifting  into  my 
hall,  at  the  mercy  of  any  chance  vagrant. 

The  guns  had  been  booming  for  perhaps 
five  minutes  when  I  heard  running  footsteps 
entering  the  square.  Our  square  is  so  shut 
in  and  small  that  it  echoes  like  a  church; 
every  sound  is  startling  and  can  be  heard  in 
every  part  of  it.  I  could  not  see  to  whom  the 
footsteps  belonged  on  account  of  the  trees 
and  the  darkness.  They  entered  on  the  side 
farthest  from  me,  from  the  street  where  the 

[21] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

red  motor-buses  pass.  When  they  had  reached 
the  top,  from  which  there  is  no  exit,  they 
hesitated;  then  came  hurrying  back  along  the 
side  on  which  they  would  have  to  pass  me. 
Tip-a-tap,  tip-a-tap,  tip-a-tap  and  panting 
breath  —  the  sound  of  a  woman's  high-heeled 
shoes  against  the  pavement.  Accompany- 
ing the  tip-a-tap  were  funny,  more  frequent, 
shuffling  noises,  indistinct  and  confused. 
Three  shadows  grew  out  of  the  gloom,  a 
small  one  on  either  side  and  a  bigger  one 
in  the  centre;  as  they  drew  near  they  re- 
solved themselves  into  a  lady  in  an  evening- 
wrap  and  two  children. 

I  was  more  glad  than  I  cared  to  own,  for 
I'd  been  feeling  lonely.  Now  that  peace  has 
come  and  we've  won  the  war,  I  don't  mind  ac- 
knowledging that  I'd  been  feeling  frightened; 
at  the  time  I  wouldn't  have  confessed  it  for 
the  world  lest  the  Huns  should  have  got  to 
know  it.  We  London  houses,  trying  to  live 
up  to  the  example  of  our  soldiers,  always  pre- 
tended that  we  liked  the  excitement  of  air- 
raids. We  didn't  really;  we  quaked  in  all 

[22] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

our  bricks  and  mortar.  One's  foundations 
aren't  what  they  were  when  one  is  a  hundred- 
and-ninety-eight  years  old.  So  Pm  not 
ashamed  to  tell  you  that  I  was  delighted  when 
the  lady  and  her  children  came  in  my  direc- 
tion. I  tried  to  push  my  front-door  wider 
that  they  might  guess  that  they  were  wel- 
come. I  was  terribly  nervous  that  they  might 
pass  in  their  haste  without  seeing  that  I  was 
anxious  to  give  them  shelter.  It  was  shelter 
that  they  were  looking  for.  In  coming  into 
the  square  they  had  been  seeking  a  short- 
cut home. 

They  drew  level  without  slackening  their 
steps  and  had  almost  gone  by  me  when,  less 
than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a  bomb  crashed 
deafeningly.  Everything  seemed  to  reel.  Far 
and  near  you  could  hear  the  tinkling  of 
splintered  glass.  The  world  leapt  up  red  for 
a  handful  of  seconds  as  though  the  door  of  a 
gigantic  furnace  had  been  flung  open.  Against 
the  glow  you  could  see  the  crouching  roofs  of 
houses,  the  crooked  chimney-pots  and  the 
net-work  of  trees  in  the  garden  with  their 

[23] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

branches  stripped  and  bare.  The  lady 
clutched  at  my  railings  to  steady  herself. 
Her  face  was  white  and  her  eyes  were  dark 
with  terror.  The  last  bomb  had  been  so  very 
close  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  next  must 
fall  in  the  square  itself.  One  of  the  search- 
lights had  spotted  the  enemy  and  was  follow- 
ing his  plane  through  the  clouds,  holding  it 
in  its  glare. 

"Mummy,  it's  all  right.  Don't  be  fright- 
ened. You've  got  me  to  take  care  of  you." 
It  was  the  little  boy  speaking.  Then  he  saw 
my  To  Let  sign  above  and  pointed,  "We'll 
go  in  here  till  it's  over.  Look,  the  door's 
wide  open." 

He  tugged  on  her  hand.  With  her  arm 
about  the  shoulder  of  the  little  girl  on  the 
other  side  of  her,  she  followed.  The  glow 
died  down  and  faded.  Soon  the  square  was 
as  secret  and  shadowy  as  it  had  been  before 
—  a  tank  full  of  darkness  in  which  nothing 
stirred. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  III 


CHAPTER  III 

iEVER  since  I  had  been  built  had 
any  visit  quite  as  unceremonious 
as  this  occurred.  Who  was  the 
strange  lady?  What  was  she  doing 
wandering  the  streets  at  this  hour  unescorted? 
She  was  beautiful  and  richly  gowned;  her 
face  was  young,  but  very  sad.  I  was  anxious 
to  learn  more,  so  I  listened  intently. 

At  first  on  entering,  they  halted  just  across 
the  threshold,  huddled  together,  the  little 
lady  with  an  arm  flung  about  each  of  the 
children.  She  seemed  to  think  that  someone 
might  be  hidden  in  the  darkness  watching  — 
someone  to  whom  I  belonged  —  for  presently 
she  addressed  that  supposed  someone  trem- 
blingly: "We  hope  you  don't  mind,  but  the 
car  forgot  to  come  for  us.  Grandfather  had 
been  giving  us  a  party.  When  we  heard  the 
warning,  we  tried  to  run  home  before  the 

[27] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

raid  started;  but  we  got  lost.  The  Tube 
Stations  were  all  so  crowded  that  .  .  .  And 
we  found  your  door  open,  so  we  hope  you 
don't  mind  us  entering." 

She  paused  nervously,  waiting  for  someone 
to  answer.  A  board  creaked;  apart  from  that 
the  silence  was  unbroken. 

Speaking  to  herself  more  than  to  the  chil- 
dren, "It's  quite  empty,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Shall  I  close  the  door,  Mumsie?"  the  little 
boy  questioned. 

"No,  Robbie  darling,"  she  whispered;  "they 
might  be  angry,  when  they  come  back.  I 
mean  the  people  who  live  here." 

"But  it's  dreadfully  cold." 

"Then  let's  go  farther  in  and  find  some- 
where to  sit  down  till  the  raid  is  over." 

They  stumbled  their  way  in  the  darkness 
through  the  hall  and  up  the  narrow  staircase, 
where  only  one  can  walk  abreast.  Robbie 
went  first  on  this  voyage  of  discovery;  he 
felt  that  if  anything  were  hiding  from  them, 
his  body  would  form  a  protection.  His 
mother  didn't  want  to  lose  sight  of  the  street 

[28] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

by  climbing  higher,  but  he  coaxed  her  on 
from  stair  to  stair.  As  pioneer  of  the  expedi- 
tion, he  reached  the  tiny  landing  with  the 
single  door,  which  gives  entrance  to  the 
drawing-room  which  occupies  the  whole 
of  the  second  storey.  Turning  the  handle 
he  peeped  in  warily.  Then,  "Cheer  up, 
Mummy,"  he  cried,  "there's  been  a  fire  and 
there's  a  wee  bit  of  it  still  burning." 

The  room  was  carpetless  and  bare  of  furni- 
ture, save  for  an  old  sofa  with  sagging  springs 
that  had  been  pulled  up  across  the  hearth. 
Perched  on  the  bars  of  the  grate  sat  a  tin 
kettle,  gasping  feebly,  with  nearly  all  its 
water  boiled  away.  Under  the  kettle  a  few 
coals  glowed  faintly  and  a  weak  flame  jumped 
and  sank,  like  a  ghost  trying  to  make  up  its 
mind  to  vanish.  Through  the  tall  French 
windows  that  opened  on  to  the  verandah  one 
could  see  the  sky  lit  up  with  the  tumultuous 
display  of  monstrous  fireworks.  From  high 
overhead,  above  the  clatter  of  destruction 
and  the  banging  of  guns,  came  the  long- 
drawn,  contented  humming  of  the  planes. 

[29] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"They're  right  over  us,"  the  little  boy 
whispered. 

As  if  afraid  that  any  movement  on  their 
part  would  draw  the  enemy's  attention,  they 
stood  silent,  clinging  together,  and  listened. 
Oblongs  of  light,  falling  through  the  windows, 
danced  and  shifted.  Once  the  beam  -of  a 
searchlight  groping  through  the  shadows, 
gazed  straight  in  and  dwelt  on  them  as- 
tounded, as  if  to  say,  "Well,  I  never!  Who'd 
have  thought  to  find  you  here?" 

They  tiptoed  over  to  the  couch  and  sat 
down,  making  as  little  noise  as  possible,  for 
they  still  weren't  sure  that  they  were  welcome. 
They  didn't  speak  or  move  for  some  time; 
with  the  excitement  and  running  and  losing 
their  way  they  were  very  tired.  Presently 
the  little  boy  got  up,  and  went  and  stood  by 
the  window  looking  out,  with  his  legs  astraddle 
and  his  hands  behind  his  back  like  a  man. 
He  wore  a  sailor-suit  and  had  bare,  sturdy 
knees.  He  was  very  small  to  try  to  be  so 
manly. 

"I'm  not  frightened,   Mummy,"   he  said. 

[30] 


"The  little  boy  i/ooJ  by  the  window  will)  bis  legs  astraddle" 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"If  father  were  here,  he  wouldn't  be  fright- 
ened." 

She  shifted  her  position  so  that  she  could 
glance  proudly  back  at  him.  "Father  was 
never  frightened." 

For  the  first  time  the  little  girl  spoke.  "If 
father  were  here,  they  wouldn't  dare  to  come 
to  London.  I  expect  they  knew  ..." 

"Yes,  Joan,"  her  mother  interrupted 
quickly,  "  I  expect  they  knew." 

"And  when  I'm  a  man  they  won't  dare  to 
come  to  London,  either,"  said  Robbie.  "How 
many  of  them  did  father  .  .  .?" 

But  at  that  moment,  before  he  could  finish 
his  question,  his  mother  pressed  her  finger 
against  his  lips  warningly.  Above  the  roar 
of  what  was  going  on  in  the  clouds,  she  had 
heard  another  and  more  alarming  sound;  the 
front-door  closed  quietly,  a  match  struck  and 
then  the  slow  deliberate  tread  of  someone 
groping  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 


CHAPTER  IV 

[HE  tread  reached  the  landing  and 
proceeded  to  mount  higher.  Then 
it  hesitated.  Another  match  was 
struck  and  it  commenced  to  de- 
scend. On  arriving  at  the  landing  again,  it 
halted  uncertain.  The  handle  of  the  door  was 
tried.  The  door  swung  open  and  a  man  peered 
across  the  threshold.  No  one  spoke.  The 
little  lady  on  the  couch  drew  Joan  closer  to 
her  side  and  held  her  breath,  hoping  that  the 
man  might  not  observe  them  and  that,  when 
he  had  gone,  they  might  escape.  But  the 
man  did  not  go,  he  stood  there  on  the  alert, 
listening  and  searching  the  darkness. 

It  was  Robbie  who  spoke  first.     He  had 

thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  knickerbockers' 

pockets   to   gain   courage.      "What  do  you 

want?    We  think  you  might  speak/'  he  said. 

The  man  laughed  pleasantly.    "  I'm  sorry  if 

[35] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

I've  frightened  you.  I  didn't  know  that  any- 
one was  here.  I  thought  this  was  an  empty 
house.  Perhaps  you  weren't  aware  of  it,  but 
you'd  left  your  front-door  open."  Then,  be- 
cause no  one  replied,  he  added,  "  It's  all  right 
now;  it's  closed." 

He  wasn't  looking  at  Robbie  any  longer. 
He  was  trying  to  probe  the  shadows  by  the 
fireplace,  where  he  had  caught  the  rustle  of 
a  woman's  dress.  He  had  caught  something 
else  —  the  faint  sweet  fragrance  of  Jacque- 
minot. 

"I've  alarmed  you,"  he  said.  "I'm  a 
stranger  in  London  and  I  couldn't  find  any 
way  out  of  your  square.  I  strayed  into  your 
house  for  shelter.  I'm  sorry  I  intruded. 
Good-night  to  you  all,  however  many  there 
are  of  you." 

He  was  actually  going.  It  was  impossible 
to  see  what  he  looked  like,  but  he  was 
evidently  well-mannered  and  a  gentleman. 
Suddenly  to  the  lady  hi  the  lonely  house, 
from  being  a  creature  of  dread,  he  became  a 
heaven-sent  protector.  Who  could  tell  how 

[36] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

many  less  desirable  visitors  might  not  call 
before  the  raid  was  ended?  The  care-taker 
might  return.  Were  that  to  happen,  it  would 
be  much  more  comfortable  to  have  this  male 
trespasser  present  to  help  make  the  explana- 
tions. Just  as  he  was  withdrawing,  the  lady 
rose  from  the  shabby  couch  and  called  him 
back. 

"Oh,  please, we'd  much  rather  you  didn't  go." 

"But  who  are  we?" 

"I  and  Robbie  and  Joan.  We  did  the  same 
thing  as  you.  The  house  doesn't  belong  to 
us.  We  got  caught,  just  as  you  did.  We 
were  terribly  scared  and  .  .  .  and  it's  creepy 
being  in  an  empty,  strange  house  where  you 
haven't  any  right  to  be." 

Though  she  could  only  see  the  blur  of  him, 
she  could  feel  the  smile  that  was  in  his  eyes 
when  she  had  finished  her  appeal.  And  it 
was  an  appeal,  eager  and  nervous  and  tremu- 
lous. The  tears  in  her  voice  said  much  more 
than  the  words.  As  he  turned  on  his  heel, 
she  heard  the  jingle  of  his  spurs  and  guessed 
that  he  was  a  man  in  khaki. 

[37] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  France,"  he  said, 
speaking  slowly;  "I  only  landed  yesterday. 
I  was  lonely  too;  I  didn't  know  a  soul.  A 
queer  way  to  make  a  friend!" 

As  he  stepped  into  the  room,  the  light  from 
the  windows  fell  on  him;  he  was  dressed  in 
the  uniform  of  an  American  officer. 

"Which  are  you?"  he  asked.  "I've  heard 
only  your  voice  as  yet.  I'll  do  anything  I 
can  to  help." 

The  little  lady  held  out  her  hand,  but  her 
face  was  still  in  shadow.  It  was  a  very  tiny 
hand.  "  It's  good  of  you  to  be  willing  to  stay 
with  us,"  she  said  gratefully. 

At  that  point  their  conversation  languished. 
The  circumstances  were  so  unprecedented  that 
they  were  at  a  loss  what  to  say  or  how  to  act. 
It  was  he  who  broke  the  awkward  silence: 
"We  ought  to  be  able  to  rouse  this  fire  with  a 
little  effort."  He  bent  over  it,  trying  to  pull 
it  together.  "We  need  more  coal.  If  you'll 
excuse  me  and  won't  be  frightened  while 
I'm  gone,  I'll  run  down  and  see  what  I  can 
forage." 

[38] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  he  was  gone  — 
so  long  that  she  had  begun  to  be  afraid  that 
he'd  taken  his  chance  to  slip  out.  She 
wouldn't  have  blamed  him.  In  the  last  two 
years,  since  she'd  been  by  herself,  she'd  be- 
come used  to  men  doing  things  like  that. 
She  had  ceased  to  bank  overmuch  on  mascu- 
line chivalry.  Few  men  had  leisure  to  expend 
on  a  woman,  however  charming  and  beauti- 
ful, whose  children  had  always  to  be  included 
in  the  friendship. 

When  she  had  made  quite  sure  that  he 
was  no  more  chivalrous  than  other  men,  she 
heard  him  laboriously  returning.  He  came 
in  carrying  a  scuttle  in  one  hand  and  some 
bundles  of  wood  in  the  other.  "And  now 
we'll  pull  down  the  blinds,"  he  said,  "and 
make  a  blaze  and  get  her  going." 

On  his  knees  before  the  hearth  he  started 
to  work,  ramming  paper  between  the  bars, 
piling  sticks  criss-cross  and  using  his  cheeks 
as  bellows.  In  the  intervals  between  his  exer- 
tions he  chatted,  "I'm  no  great  shakes  at 
house-work.  You  mustn't  watch  me  too 

[39] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

closely  or  laugh  at  me.  I'll  do  better  than 
this  when  I've  been  at  the  Front,  I  guess. 
Are  these  your  kiddies?  ...  I  suppose  your 
husband's  over  there,  where  I'm  going?" 

"He  was." 

"Oh,  so  you've  got  him  back!  You're 
lucky.  Is  he  wounded  or  has  he  got  a  staff 
job  in  England?" 

"He'll  never  come  back." 

He  paused  in  what  he  was  doing  and  sat 
gazing  into  the  flames  which  were  licking  at 
the  wood.  He  hung  his  head.  He  ought  to 
have  thought  of  that;  in  the  last  few  years 
so  many  Englishmen  were  dead.  And  then 
there  came  another  reflection  —  the  picture 
of  what  it  must  have  cost  her  husband  to  say 
good-bye  to  his  wife  and  children,  and  go 
marching  away  to  anonymous  glory.  He 
wasn't  married  himself,  but  if  he  had  been 
...  It  took  enough  bolstering  up  of  one's 
courage  to  go  when  one  was  single;  but  to 
go  when  one  was  married  .  .  .  And  yet 
selfishly,  ever  since  he  had  put  on  khaki  his 
paramount  regret  had  been  that,  were  he  to 

[40] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

peg  out,  he  would  leave  no  one  to  carry  on 
in  his  stead.  This  air-raid  was  his  first 
remote  taste  of  warfare;  within  the  next  few 
weeks  he  was  to  know  it  in  its  full  fury. 
What  had  impressed  him  most  was  the  dif- 
ference between  war  as  imagined  and  wit- 
nessed. As  imagined  it  had  seemed  the 
most  immense  of  sports;  as  witnessed  it  was 
merely  murder.  Just  before  he  had  sought 
shelter  he  had  seen  where  a  bomb  had  fallen. 
People  had  been  killed  —  people  not  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  mother  and  children  hiding 
in  this  house.  The  suddenness  of  extinction 
had  made  him  feel  that  in  the  game  of  life 
he  had  somehow  "missed  out."  There  would 
be  no  woman  to  think  of  him  as  "her  man" 
were  he  to  go  west.  And  here  was  the 
woman's  price  for  such  caring,  "He'll  never 
come  back." 

He  turned  his  head  slowly;  by  the  light 
of  the  crackling  wood  for  the  first  time  he 
saw  her.  The  little  boy  was  lying  wearied 
out,  with  his  head  bowed  in  her  lap.  The 
little  girl  sat  drowsing  against  her  shoulder. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

She  herself  was  leaning  forward,  gazing  at 
and  beyond  him  with  a  curious  air  of  resigned 
intensity.  She  seemed  to  him  to  be  listening 
for  someone,  whom  she  knew  in  her  heart 
was  never  coming.  He  noticed  the  white 
half-moon  of  her  shoulders  faintly  showing 
beneath  her  chinchilla  wrap.  He  noticed  her 
string  of  perfect  pearls,  the  single  ring  on 
her  hand  and  the  expensive  simplicity  of  her 
velvet  gown.  He  was  sufficiently  a  man  of 
the  world  to  make  a  guess  at  her  social 
station.  But  it  wasn't  her  beauty  or  elegance 
that  struck  him,  though  they  were  strangely 
in  contrast  to  the  empty  room  in  which  she 
sat;  it  was  her  gentleness  and  expression  of 
patient  courage.  He  knew,  as  surely  as  if 
she  had  told  him,  that  this  empty  room,  in 
which  he  had  found  her,  was  the  symbol  of 
her  days.  It  was  with  her  as  it  was  with 
himself;  there  was  no  man  to  whom  she  was 
"his  woman." 

"  I've  hurt  you  by  the  impertinence  of  my 
questions/* 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.     "You've 

[42] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

not  hurt  me.  Don't  think  that.  I  shouldn't 
like  you  to  think  that  you'd  hurt  me  or  any- 
thing that  would  make  you  sad.  Are  you 
going  to  France  soon?" 

"Tomorrow." 

"Then  you  won't  be  here  for  Christmas. 
I  wonder  where  you'll  spend  it.  Perhaps  next 
Christmas  the  war  will  be  ended  and  you'll 
.  .  .  J  She  caught  the  instant  change  in  his 
expression.  She  had  seen  that  look  too  often 
in  soldiers'  eyes  when  the  future  was  men- 
tioned not  to  know  what  it  meant.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm  impulsively.  "But 
everyone  who  goes  doesn't  stay  there.  You'll 
be  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  You'll  come  back. 
I  have  that  feeling  about  you.  I  know  what's 
in  your  mind;  you're  a  long  way  from  home, 
you're  going  to  face  a  great  danger  and  you 
believe  that  everything  is  ended.  You  can 
only  think  of  war  now,  but  there  are  so  many 
better  things  to  do  with  life  than  fighting. 
All  the  better  things  will  be  here  to  welcome 
you,  when  you  return." 

He  found  himself  talking  to  her  in  a  way 

[43] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

in  which  he  had  never  spoken  to  any  woman. 
Afterwards,  when  he  recalled  their  conversa- 
tion, he  wondered  why.  Was  it  because  she 
had  filled  him  with  so  complete  a  sense  of 
rest?  One  didn't  have  to  explain  things  to 
her;  she  understood.  He  asked  her  how  it 
was  that  she  understood  and  she  replied, 
"You  don't  have  to  go  to  war  to  learn  how 
to  endure.  You  can  stay  at  home  and  yet 
beat  off  attacks  in  the  front-line  trench.  We 
women  defeat  despair  by  keeping  on  smiling 
when  there's  nothing  left  to  smile  about,  and 
by  wearing  pretty  dresses  when  there's  no 
one  to  take  a  pride  in  what  we  wear." 

He  retorted  unguardedly,  as  he  felt.  "But 
there  must  be  heaps  of  people  who  take  a 
pride  in  you." 

"You  think  so?  You're  unspoilt  and  gener- 
ous. Life's  a  wonderful  dream  that  lies  all 
before  you.  You  haven't  known  sorrow. 
Do  you  know  what  you  seemed  to  be  saying 
when  you  spoke  to  me  through  the  shadows? 
'Everybody  has  always  loved  and  trusted 
me,  so  you  love  and  trust  me,  too.'  If  it 

[44] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

hadn't  been  for  that,  that  I  saw  that  you'd 
always  been  loved  and  were  lonely  for  the 
moment,  I  shouldn't  have  sat  here  talking 
with  you  for  the  last  hour.  You'll  get  every- 
thing you  want  from  life,  if  you'll  only  wait 
for  it.  You'll  come  back." 

While  he  sat  at  her  feet  in  the  firelight,  she 
had  the  knack  of  making  him  feel  like  a  little 
boy  who  was  being  comforted.  She  kept 
aloof  from  him,  but  she  mothered  him  with 
words.  He  found  himself  glancing  up  at  her 
furtively  to  make  sure  that  she  wasn't  as 
old  as  she  pretended.  She  wasn't  old  at  all 
—  not  a  single  day  older  than  himself.  He 
turned  over  in  his  mind  what  she  had  said 
about  having  no  one  to  be  proud  of  her.  He 
would  have  given  a  lot  for  the  chance  to  be 
proud  of  her  himself.  But  he  was  going  to 
France  tomorrow  —  there  was  no  time  left 
for  that.  With  so  much  fighting  and  dying 
to  be  done,  it  seemed  as  though  there  would 
never  again  be  time  for  anything  that  was 
personal. 

The  clamour  in  the  skies  had  died  down. 

[45] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

The  crash  of  guns  had  been  growing  infre- 
quent; now  it  had  subsided.  The  drone  of 
planes  could  be  no  more  heard.  The  invader 
had  been  driven  back;  hard  on  his  heels  our 
aerial  cavalry  were  following  across  the  Chan- 
nel, awaiting  their  moment  to  exact  revenge 
when  he  tried  to  land. 

The  restored  normality  seemed  to  rouse  her 
reserve.  Lifting  the  sleeping  head  from  her 
lap,  she  whispered,  "Wake  up,  Robbie;  we 
can  go  home  now.  It's  all  over." 

The  officer  had  risen  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  mantel,  "So  it's  good-bye?" 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"  You've  made  me  happy  when  I  least  ex- 
pected to  be  happy.  Shall  we  meet  again, 
I  wonder?" 

She  smiled  at  his  seriousness.  "Perhaps. 
One  never  knows  what  the  good  God  will 
allow.  We  didn't  expect  to  meet  tonight." 

He  was  sensitive  to  her  evasion  and  laughed, 
pretending  to  make  light  of  it.  "We  don't 
want  them  to  think  they've  had  burglars. 
We  had  better  leave  something  for  the  coals 


"Hard  on  bis  beels  our  aerial  cavalry  followed  him  across 
the  Channel" 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

we've  burned."    He  placed  a  pound  note  on 
the  mantel. 

Taking  Joan  in  his  arms  and  going  first, 
he  led  the  way  down  the  stairs.  When  they 
were  out  of  the  hall  and  the  front-door  had 
closed  behind  them,  he  left  the  little  group 
on  the  steps  and  went  hi  search  of  a  taxi. 
After  a  lengthy  expedition  he  found  one  and, 
by  promising  an  excessive  fare,  induced  the 
driver  to  accompany  him  back.  He  knew 
neither  the  name  of  the  square  nor  the  num- 
ber of  the  house,  so  he  had  to  keep  his  head 
out  of  the  window  and  shout  directions.  On 
entering  the  square  he  searched  the  pavement 
ahead,  but  could  catch  no  sign  of  his  recent 
companions.  He  halted  the  cab  against  the 
curb  at  the  point  where  he  thought  he  had 
left  them;  he  was  made  certain  that  it  was 
the  point  when  he  saw  the  notice  TO  LET. 
Perhaps  the  caretaker  had  come  back  and 
invited  them  to  enter  till  he  returned.  He 
rang  the  bell  and  knocked  vigorously.  The 
driver  was  eyeing  him  with  suspicion.  When 
his  repeated  knockings  were  unanswered,  he 

[47] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

got  into  the  taxi  and  ordered  him  to  move 
slowly  round  the  square. 

She  had  completely  vanished.  Either  she 
had  picked  up  a  conveyance  for  herself,  while  he 
had  been  engaged  in  his  search,  or  else  she  had 
lost  faith  in  him  and  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  he  had  deserted  her.  He  did  not  know 
her  name.  She  had  given  him  no  address. 
Tomorrow  night  he  would  be  in  France.  He 
had  neither  the  time  nor  the  necessary  in- 
formation to  hunt  for  her. 

In  reply  to  the  driver's  request  for  further 
instructions,  he  growled  the  name  of  his 
hotel.  Then  he  spread  himself  out  on  the 
cushions  and  gave  way  to  disconsolate  re- 
flections. The  night  was  full  of  smoke  and 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  a  bonfire  burnt  out. 
Things  had  become  again  uninteresting.  He 
told  himself  that  the  most  wonderful  hour 
of  his  life  was  ended. 


CHAPTER  V 


CHAPTER  V 

IHRISTMAS  came  and  went  un- 
merrily.  The  old  woman  who  took 
care  of  me  had  known  better 
days;  she  stayed  in  bed  in  an 
effort  to  forget.  Next  door,  but  one,  a  son 
had  returned  unexpectedly  from  the  trenches. 
There  were  laughing,  dancing  and  piano- 
playing.  I  tried  to  share  their  happiness; 
but  happiness  isn't  the  same  when  it  is  bor- 
rowed second-hand.  My  rooms  were  cheer- 
less and  empty  of  all  sound. 

I  kept  thinking  of  my  air-raid  visitors, 
wondering  where  they  were  and  hoping  that 
the  American  officer  had  re-found  the  little 
lady.  If  he  had,  I  felt  sure  he  would  be  good 
to  her.  I  told  myself  a  foolish  fairy-story, 
as  old  houses  will,  of  how,  when  the  war  was 
ended,  they  would  drive  up  to  my  door  to- 
gether, as  if  by  accident,  and  exclaim,  "Why, 

[5'] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

it's  the  little  house  where  we  first  met!" 
Then  the  TO  LET  sign  would  be  taken  down 
and,  having  fetched  Joan  and  Robbie,  we 
would  all  live  together  forever.  With  luck 
and  love  we  might  have  smaller  feet  to  toddle 
up  and  down  my  stairs. 

January,  February,  March  commenced  and 
ended,  and  the  TO  LET  sign  was  still  there. 
It  seemed  that  nobody  would  ever  want  me. 
It  was  April  now;  to  their  nests  in  the  railed- 
in  garden  of  the  square  the  last  year's  birds 
were  coming  back.  Trees  had  become  a 
mist  of  greenness.  Tulips  and  daffodils  were 
shining  above  the  ground.  In  the  window- 
boxes  of  other  houses  geraniums  were  making 
a  scarlet  flare.  Without  warning  the  dream, 
which  had  been  no  more  than  a  dream,  began 
to  become  a  fact. 

I  had  been  drowsing  in  the  sun,  taking  no 
notice  of  what  was  happening,  when  I  was 
suddenly  awakened  by  a  sharp  rat-a-tat-tat. 
I  came  to  myself  with  a  start  to  find  that  the 
little  lady,  unaccompanied,  was  standing  on 
my  steps. 

[52] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

She  knocked  again  and  then  a  third  time. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  about  her  determina- 
tion to  enter.  At  last  the  old  woman  heard 
her  and  dragged  herself  complainingly  up 
from  the  basement.  When  the  door  had 
been  narrowly  opened,  the  little  lady  pushed 
it  wider  and  stepped  smartly  into  the  hall 
with  an  exceedingly  business-like  air.  "I 
have  an  order  from  the  agents  to  view  the 
house." 

"I'm  'ard  of  'earing.  Wot  did  yer  say? 
Speak  louder." 

"I  have  an  order  from  the  agents  to  look 
over  the  house." 

"Let's  see  your  order?" 

While  the  caretaker  fumbled  for  her  spec- 
tacles, she  went  on  talking.  "You  won't 
like  it.  There's  no  real  sense  in  your  seeing 
it.  It  ain't  much  of  a  'ouse  —  not  modern, 
too  little  and  all  stairs." 

It  made  me  furious  to  hear  her  running  me 
down  and  to  have  no  chance  to  defend  myself. 

"Nevertheless,  I  rather  like  it  and  I  think 
I'll  see  it,"  the  little  lady  said. 

[53] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

She  went  from  room  to  room,  making  notes 
of  the  accommodations  and  thinking  aloud 
as  she  set  them  down.  "Four  floors  beside 
the  basement.  On  the  top  floor  two  bed- 
rooms; they'll  do  for  Robbie  and  Joan  and 
nurse.  On  the  next  floor  one  bedroom  and 
a  bathroom;  I'll  have  that  for  myself.  Oh 
the  second  floor  one  big  room,  running  from 
front  to  back;  that's  where  we'll  have  the 
parrot  and  the  piano,  and  where  I'll  do  my 
sewing.  On  the  ground-floor  a  dining-room 
in  front  and  a  bedroom  at  the  back;  the  bed- 
room at  the  back  will  do  for  cook.  I  won't 
have  anyone  sleeping  below-stairs.  It's  a 
very  wee  house,  but  tremendously  cosy.  And 
what  pretty  views  —  the  garden  in  the  square 
in  front,  and  the  old  grey  church  with  its 
graveyard  at  the  back!  It's  all  so  green  and 
quiet,  like  being  in  the  country." 

She  had  far  out-distanced  the  caretaker, 
hurrying  over  the  first  two  floors  that  she 
might  get  to  the  top  by  herself.  Now,  as 
she  descended,  she  inspected  each  room  more 
leisurely.  As  yet  she  had  said  no  word  that 

[54] 


"  The  old  grey  cburcb  with  its  graveyard  at  the  back  " 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

would  indicate  that  she  had  recognised  me. 
I  wondered  what  her  motive  had  been  in 
coming;  whether  she  had  deliberately  sought 
me  or  stumbled  on  me  simply  by  accident. 
I  would  have  known  her  anywhere,  though  I 
had  been  blind  and  deaf,  by  the  fragrance 
of  Jacqueminot  that  clung  about  her. 

She  had  come  to  the  tiny  landing  on  the 
second  floor,  when  something  familiar  in  her 
surroundings  struck  her.  She  stood  there 
holding  the  handle  of  the  door  and  wrinkling 
her  forehead.  "It's  odd,"  she  whispered; 
"I  can't  understand  it."  She  turned  the 
handle  and  entered.  The  room  smelt  stuffy; 
its  windows  had  not  been  opened  since  she 
was  last  there.  The  sunlight,  pouring  in, 
revealed  motes  of  dust  which  rose  up  dancing 
every  time  she  stirred.  In  the  grate  were 
the  accumulated  ashes  of  many  fires.  Drawn 
across  the  hearth  was  the  shabby  couch. 
Nothing  had  been  altered  since  she  had  left 
it.  She  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyes, 
"It  can't  be;  it  would  be  too  strange  to  find 
rt  like  that."  Then  she  started  to  recon- 

[55] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

struct  the  scene  as  she  remembered  it. 
"Robbie  was  there  against  the  window,  ask- 
ing how  many  Huns  his  daddy  had  brought 
down,  and  I  was  sitting  here  in  the  shadow, 
when  quite  suddenly  we  heard  his  tread  on 
the  stairs.  The  door  opened;  he  said  some- 
thing about  being  sorry  that  he'd  frightened 
us,  and  then.  .  .  .  Why  yes,  I'm  positive." 
She  stepped  out  onto  the  verandah  and 
stood  looking  down  into  the  square.  When 
she  turned  to  re-enter  her  eyes  were  moist 
and  shining.  "You  are  the  little  house.  Oh, 
little  house,  I've  dreamt  of  you  so  often. 
Does  he  dream  of  you  too,  where  he  is  out 
there?  Was  I  right  to  run  away  and  to 
doubt  him?  If  you  had  a  tongue  you  could 
tell  me;  did  he  say  hard  things  about  me 
when  he  found  me  gone  on  coming  back?" 


[56] 


CHAPTER  VI 

j  WO  weeks  later  they  took  posses- 
sion of  me.  They  did  it  with  so 
much  friendliness  that  at  the  end 
of  a  month  it  was  as  though  we 
had  always  lived  together.  Even  the  furni- 
ture fitted  into  all  my  odd  nooks  and  angles 
as  if  it  had  been  made  especially  for  me. 
And,  indeed,  it  might  have  been,  for  most  of 
it  was  created  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne, 
at  which  period  my  walls  were,  as  one  might 
say,  feeling  their  legs.  It  was  very  pleasant 
when  night  had  settled  down  and  everyone 
was  sleeping,  to  listen  to  the  conversations 
which  were  carried  on  between  the  new-comers 
and  my  own  floors  and  stairs.  One  grand- 
father's clock  was  particularly  interesting  in 
his  reminiscences.  He  had  told  the  time  to 
Dr.  Johnson  and  had  ticked  away  the  great 
lexicographer's  last  hours.  On  this  account 

[59] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

he  was  inclined  to  be  amusingly  self-impor- 
tant; it  was  a  permanent  source  of  grievance 
with  him  that,  so  far  as  the  present  genera- 
tion was  concerned,  his  pedigree  was  un- 
known. There  were  times  when  he  would 
work  himself  into  such  passions  that  his 
weights  would  drop  with  a  bang.  He  was 
always  sorry  for  it  next  morning  and  ashamed 
to  face  the  little  lady.  As  she  came  down  to 
breakfast,  she  would  catch  sight  of  his  hands 
and  say,  "So  the  poor  old  clock  has  stopped 
again!  The  old  fellow's  worn  out.  We  shall 
have  to  send  him  to  the  mender's." 

Perhaps  it  is  hardly  fair  to  repeat  this 
gossip  about  one  piece  of  the  furniture,  for 
everything,  myself  included,  was  old;  whether 
we  were  tables,  chairs  or  stair-cases,  we  all 
had  our  crochets  and  oddities.  But,  however 
much  we  differed  among  ourselves,  we  were 
united  in  adoring  the  youth  of  the  little  lady 
and  her  children.  More  than  any  of  us  the 
whispering  parrot  adored  her. 

The  whispering  parrot  was  a  traveller.  He 
had  come  from  Australia  fifty  years  ago. 

[60] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

He  played  so  indispensable  a  part  in  pro- 
ducing the  happy  ending  that  he  deserves  an 
introduction. 

He  had  been  the  gift  of  the  children's 
grandfather,  a  retired  General.  His  plumage 
was  Quaker  grey,  all  except  his  breast  and 
crest  which  were  a  wonderful  rose-pink.  He 
had  black  beady  eyes  which  took  in  every- 
thing; what  they  saw,  he  invariably  remem- 
bered. He  had  a  confidential,  hoarse  way  of 
speaking,  that  never  rose  above  a  whisper. 
When  you  heard  him  for  the  first  time  you 
supposed  that  he  had  a  bad  sore  throat.  He 
had  a  favorite  question  which  he  asked  when- 
ever he  thought  he  was  not  being  paid  suffi- 
cient attention,  "What  shall  we  talk  about?" 
He  would  ask  it  with  his  head  cocked  on  one 
side,  while  he  rubbed  his  feathers  up  and 
down  the  bars.  "What  shall  we  talk  about?" 
he  would  ask  the  little  lady  as  she  sat  sewing 
beneath  the  lamp  of  an  evening.  She  was 
always  by  herself  when  the  children  had  been 
put  to  bed.  She  had  no  callers  and  never 
went  anywhere. 

[61] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"Talk  about  Polly!"  she  would  say.  "I 
don't  know,  you  good  grey  bird.  Did  you 
think  I  was  lonely?  Well,  let's  see!  Who 
loves  Mummy  best?  Can  you  answer  me 
that?" 

Then  he  would  cock  his  head  still  farther 
on  one  side  and  pretend  to  think  furiously. 
She  would  have  to  ask  him  several  times 
before  he  would  attempt  an  answer.  Usually, 
when  he  got  ready,  he  would  clear  his  throat 
and  whisper,  "The  dustman."  After  which 
he  would  laugh  as  though  his  sides  were 
aching:  "What  a  naughty  Polly!  What  a 
naughty  Polly!" 

She  would  maintain  a  dignified  silence  till 
she  had  emptied  her  needle.  Then  she  would 
glance  at  him  reproachfully,  "Think  again, 
Mr.  Impudence  —  not  the  dustman." 

So  he  would  think  again,  and  having  clam- 
bered all  over  his  cage  and  hung  upside  down 
to  amuse  her,  would  hazard,  "Polly?" 

"Not  Polly." 

Then  he  would  make  any  number  of  sug- 
gestions, though  he  knew  quite  well  the 

[62] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

answer  she  required.  After  each  wrong  guess 
he  would  go  off  into  gales  of  ghostly  merri- 
ment. At  last  he  would  say  very  solemnly, 
"Robbie." 

"Yes,  Robbie,"  she  would  reply  and  scratch 
his  head;  after  which  the  game  was  ended. 
Soon  she  would  fold  away  her  work,  put  out 
the  lights  and  climb  the  narrow  stairs  to  her 
quiet  bed. 

It  seemed  very  sad  that,  when  she  was  so 
young,  she  should  have  to  spend  so  many 
hours  in  talking  to  a  rascally  old  bird.  One 
can  be  young  for  so  short  a  time.  How  short, 
those  who  are  old  know  best. 

There  were  evenings,  however,  when,  after 
the  parrot  had  answered  "  Robbie,"  she  would 
whisper,  "I  wonder!"  and  clasp  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  gazing  straight  before  her.  On 
these  evenings  she  would  sit  very  late  and 
would  look  down  at  her  feet  from  time  to 
time,  as  though  expecting  to  see  someone 
crouching  there.  Taxis  would  chug  their 
way  into  the  square  and  draw  up  at  one  or 
other  of  the  dolls*  houses.  The  taxi  door 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

would  open  and  after  a  few  seconds  close 
with  a  bang.  There  would  be  the  rustle  of 
a  woman's  dress  and  the  tripping  of  her 
slippered  feet  across  the  pavement;  the  bass 
muttering  of  her  husband  paying  the  driver; 
laughter;  the  rattling  of  a  key  in  the  latch; 
and  silence.  The  little  lady  would  sit  quite 
motionless,  listening  to  the  secret  home- 
comings of  lovers.  Then  at  last  she  would 
nod  her  head,  "You're  right,  Polly,  I  expect. 
There's  no  one  else.  No  doubt  it's  Robbie 
who  loves  me  best." 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHAPTER  VII 

j  UT  it  wasn't  Robbie.  The  dining- 
room  window  was  the  first  to 
make  the  discovery.  Being  on 
the  ground-floor,  it  gazes  across 
the  pavement  under  the  trees  and  sees  many 
things  after  nightfall  which  are  missed  by 
the  upper  storeys.  The  first  and  second  time 
that  something  unusual  happened  I  was  not 
told;  not  until  the  third  time  was  I  taken 
into  the  secret.  The  dining-room  window 
does  most  of  the  watching  for  the  entire 
house;  it  sees  so  much  that  it  has  learnt  to 
be  discreet. 

It  was  Armistice  night  when  the  unusual 
happening  first  occurred.  London  had  gone 
mad  with  relief  from  suspense.  Wherever 
a  barrel-organ  could  be  found  people  were 
dancing.  Where  more  suitable  music  was 
not  available,  tin-cans  were  being  beaten  with 

[67] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

a  dervish,  rhythmic  monotony.  Dance  the 
people  must.  Their  joy  had  gone  into  their 
feet;  they  could  not  convince  themselves 
that  peace  had  come  till  they  had  danced 
themselves  to  a  standstill.  They  invented 
impromptu  steps,  dancing  twenty  abreast  in 
the  open  spaces,  humming  any  tune  that 
caught  their  fancy,  with  their  arms  linked 
in  those  of  strangers.  But  there  were  no 
strangers  that  night;  everyone  was  a  friend. 
Top-hats,  evening-dress,  corduroys  and  pri- 
vates' uniforms  hobnobbed  together.  A 
mighty  roar  of  laughter  and  singing  went  up 
from  thousands  of  miles  of  streets,  dim-lit 
and  dusk-drenched  to  ward  off  the  ancient 
peril  from  the  air.  How  suddenly  unmodern 
peril  had  become!  All  London  laughed;  all 
England;  all  the  world.  The  sound  reached 
the  Arctic;  polar  bears  lumbered  farther 
northward,  stampeded  by  the  strum  of  our 
guffaws.  If  there  were  inhabitants  on  Mars, 
they  must  have  heard.  The  war  was  won. 
The  news  was  so  incredible  that  we  had  to 
make  a  noise  to  silence  our  doubts. 
[68] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

Everything  that  could  rejoice  was  out 
under  the  stars  making  merry.  We  had  hidden 
so  long,  walked  so  stealthily,  wept  so  quietly, 
hated  so  violently  that  our  right  to  be  happy 
was  almost  too  terrible  to  bear.  We  expressed 
our  joy  foolishly,  hysterically,  inadequately 
by  shouting,  embracing,  climbing  lamp-posts, 
riding  on  the  roofs  of  taxis.  What  did  it 
matter  so  long  as  we  expressed  it  and  brought 
the  amazing  truth  home  to  ourselves?  The 
last  cannon  had  roared.  The  final  man  had 
died  in  battle.  The  wicked  waste  of  white 
human  bodies  was  ended.  There  would  be 
no  more  rushing  for  the  morning  papers  and 
searching  the  casualty  lists  with  dread;  no 
more  rumours  of  invasions;  no  more  muster- 
ings  for  new  offensives.  The  men  whom  we 
loved  were  safe;  they  had  been  reprieved  at 
the  eleventh  hour.  We  should  have  them 
home  presently,  seated  by  their  firesides. 
It  seemed  like  the  fulfilment  of  a  prophet's 
ecstasy;  as  though  sorrow  and  crying  had 
passed  away  and  forever  there  would  be  no 
death. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

There  were  two  people  who  did  not  dance, 
climb  lamp-posts,  beat  tin-cans  and  ride  on 
the  roofs  of  taxis  that  night.  Perhaps  they 
were  the  only  two  in  London;  they  were 
both  in  Dolls'  House  Square.  The  little  lady 
was  one.  She  had  tucked  Joan  and  Robbie 
safely  in  their  beds.  She  had  kissed  them 
"Good-night"  and  turned  the  gas  on  the 
landing  to  a  jet.  She  had  gone  part  way  down 
the  narrow  stairs  and  then  .  .  .  and  then 
she  had  come  back.  She  had  picked  up  Joan 
and  carried  her  into  Robbie's  room.  When 
the  two  heads  were  lying  close  together  on 
the  pillow,  she  had  seated  herself  in  the  dark- 
ness beside  them. 

The  little  boy  stretched  up  his  arms  to  pull 
her  down;  she  resisted.  His  hands  wandered 
over  her  face  and  reached  her  eyes.  They 
were  wet.  His  heart  missed  a  beat.  He  knew 
what  that  meant.  So  often  in  the  dark,  dark 
night  he  had  wakened  with  the  sure  sense 
that  she  was  crying  and  had  tiptoed  down 
the  creaking  stairs  to  creep  in  beside  her  and 
place  his  small  arms  tightly  about  her. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"Never  mind;  you  have  me,  Mummy." 
That  was  what  he  always  said.  He  whis- 
pered it  now. 

"Yes,  I  have  my  wee  man." 
"  "And    me,    Mummy,"     Joan    murmured 
sleepily. 

"Mummy  knows.  She  has  you  both. 
Don't  worry  about  her.  She's  feeling  silly 
tonight." 

"  Because  you're  happy?  "   Joan  questioned. 

"Yes,  happy  for  so  many  little  boys  and 
girls  whose  soldier  daddies  will  be  coming 
back  to  them  soon.  Don't  talk  any  more. 
Go  sleepy-bye." 

But  Robbie  knew  that  it  wasn't  happiness 
that  made  her  cry;  he  knew  that  she  was 
crying  because  she  had  no  soldier  to  come 
back.  What  could  he  say  to  comfort  her? 
His  eyes  grew  drowsy  while  he  thought  about 
it.  He  waited  till  Joan  was  in  Sleepy-bye 
Land,  then  with  an  effort  he  opened  his 
eyes. 

"Mummy,  do  you  know  what  I'd  like  best 
for  Christmas?" 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"I  thought  you  were  sleeping.  Don't  tell 
me  now.  There's  heaps  of  time.  It's  six 
weeks  till  Christmas." 

"But  Joan  and  I  have  talked  about  it,"  he 
persisted.  "We  don't  want  him,  if  you  don't 
want  him." 

"What  is  he,  dear?  If  he  doesn't  cost  too 
much,  you  shall  have  him." 

Robbie  procrastinated  now  that  he  had 
brought  his  mother  to  the  point  of  listening. 
It  was  a  delicate  proposal  that  he  was  about 
to  make.  "I  don't  know  whether  you  can 
get  one,"  he  hesitated.  "A  boy  at  my  school 
got  one  without  asking,  and  it  wasn't  even 
Christmas." 

He  was  sitting  up  in  bed  now,  very  intense 
and  serious,  and  very  much  awake. 

"But  you've  not  told  me  yet  what  it  is 
you  want.  If  you  don't  tell  me,  I  can't  say 
whether  I  can  afford  it." 

She  slipped  her  arm  about  the  square  little 
body  and  feeling  how  it  trembled,  held  it 
close  against  her  breast.  He  hid  his  face  in 
the  hollow  of  her  neck.  "Robbie's  place," 

[72] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

she  whispered.  "If  it's  difficult  to  say, 
whisper  it  to  mother  there." 

His  lips  moved  several  times  before  a  sound 
came  and  then,  "If  it  isn't  too  much  trouble, 
we  should  like  to  have  a  Daddy." 

Against  his  will  she  held  him  back  from 
her,  trying  to  see  his  eyes.  "But  why?" 

It  was  he  who  was  crying  now.  "Oh 
Mummy,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you.  .  .  . 
To  be  like  all  the  other  little  boys  and  girls." 

When  at  last  he  was  truly  asleep  and  she 
had  come  down  to  the  lamp-lit  room  in  which 
she  sewed,  she  did  not  take  up  her  work. 
The  parrot  tried  to  draw  her  into  conversa- 
tion with  his  eternal  question,  "What  shall 
we  talk  about?" 

"Nothing  tonight,  Polly,"  she  said. 

Presently  she  crossed  the  room  and,  pull- 
ing back  the  curtains,  stood  staring  out  into 
the  blackness.  So  her  children  had  felt  it, 
too  —  the  weight  of  loneliness !  She  had  tried 
so  hard  to  prevent  them  from  sharing  it; 
had  striven  in  so  many  ways  to  be  their  com- 
panion. Try  as  she  would,  she  could  never 

[73] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

make  up  for  a  father's  absence.  She  could 
never  give  them  the  sense  of  security  that  a 
man  could  have  given  without  effort,  even 
though  he  had  loved  them  less.  It  was  a 
bitter  realisation  —  one  which  vaguely  she 
had  always  dreaded  must  come  to  her.  It 
was  doubly  bitter  coming  to  her  now,  on  a 
night  when  all  the  world  was  glad.  She 
might  be  many  things  to  her  children;  she 
could  never  be  a  man.  .  .  .  What  did  Robbie 
think?  That  you  bought  a  father  from  an 
agency  or  engaged  him  through  an  advertise- 
ment? She  smiled  sadly,  "Not  so  easy  as 
that." 

"What  shall  we  talk  about?"  asked  the 
parrot. 

She  drew  the  curtains  together,  extin- 
guished the  lights  and  groped  her  way  up 
to  bed. 

But  her  eyes  had  not  peered  far  enough 
into  the  blackness.  There  was  another  per- 
son in  London  who  had  not  danced  or  climbed 
lamp-posts  or  ridden  on  the  roofs  of  taxis 
that  night.  For  three  hours  he  had  watched 

[74] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

the  little  house  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
across  the  road.  From  the  pavement,  had 
you  been  passing,  you  would  hardly  have 
distinguished  him  as  he  leant  against  the 
garden-railings.  The  only  time  he  gave  a 
sign  of  his  presence  was  when  the  red  flare 
of  his  cigarette  betrayed  him.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  planning  harm  to  anyone;  he 
could  not  have  done  much  harm  in  any  case, 
for  the  left  sleeve  of  his  coat  hung  empty. 
He  was  simply  waiting  for  something  that 
he  hoped  might  happen.  At  last  his  patience 
was  rewarded  when  she  drew  aside  the  cur- 
tain and  stood  with  the  lighted  room  behind 
her,  staring  out  into  the  blackness.  Only 
when  she  had  again  hidden  herself  and  all 
the  house  was  in  darkness,  did  he  turn  to 
go.  He  was  there  the  next  night  and  the 
next.  It  was  after  his  third  night  of  watch- 
ing that  the  dining-room  window  told  me. 


[75] 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CHAPTER  VIII 

| HE  fourth  night  he  was  there  again. 
By  this  time  everything  in  the 
house,  from  the  kettle  in  the 
kitchen  to  the  carpet  on  the  top- 
most landing,  was  aware  that  a  one-armed 
man  was  hidden  beneath  the  trees  across  the 
road,  watching.  The  whole  house  was  on  the 
alert,  listening  and  waiting  —  everybody,  that 
is  to  say,  except  the  people  most  concerned, 
who  inhabited  us.  It  seemed  strange  that 
they  alone  should  be  in  ignorance.  The  grand- 
father clock  did  his  best  to  tell  them.  "Be- 
ware; take  care.  Beware;  take  care,"  he 
ticked  as  his  pendulum  swung  to  and  fro. 
They  stared  him  in  the  face  and  read  the 
time  by  his  hands,  but  they  had  no  idea  what 
he  was  saying. 

What  could  it  be  that  the  watching  man 
wanted?     Whatever   it   was,    he   wanted   it 

[79] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

badly,  for  it  was  by  no  means  pleasant  to 
stand  motionless  for  several  hours  when  the 
November  chill  was  in  the  air.  Nor  did  he 
seem  to  find  it  pleasant,  for  every  now  and 
then  he  coughed  and  shook  himself  like  a  dog 
inside  his  coat,  and  sunk  his  chin  deeper  into 
his  collar. 

He  had  been  there  since  six  o'clock.  He  had 
seen  the  cook  and  the  housemaid  come  up 
the  area-steps  and  meet  their  respective 
sweethearts  under  the  arc-light  at  the  end  of 
the  square.  There  was  only  one  other  grown 
person  in  the  house  beside  the  little  lady  — 
Nurse;  and  Nurse  had  been  in  bed  since  the 

afternoon  with  a  sick  headache.     He  could 

* 

not  have  known  that.  It  was  at  precisely 
eight  that  he  consulted  his  luminous  wrist- 
watch,  crossed  the  road,  hesitated  and  raised 
the  knocker  very  determinedly,  as  if  he  had 
only  just  arrived  and  had  not  much  time  to 
spare.  Rat-tat-tat!  The  sound  echoed  alarm- 
ingly through  the  silence.  The  little  lady 
dropped  her  sewing  in  her  lap  and  listened. 
The  sound  was  repeated.  Rat-tat-tat!  It 

[80] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

seemed  to  say,  "Come  along.  Don't  keep 
me  waiting.  You've  got  to  let  me  in  sooner 
or  later.  You  know  that." 

"It  can't  be  the  postman  at  this  hour,"  she 
murmured,  "and  yet  it  sounds  like  his  knock." 

Laying  her  work  on  the  table  beneath  the 
lamp,  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  descended. 
She  opened  the  door  only  a  little  way  at  first, 
just  wide  enough  for  her  to  peer  out,  so  that 
she  could  close  it  again  if  she  saw  anything 
disturbing. 

"So  you  do  live  here!"  The  man  outside 
spoke  gladly.  "I  guessed  it  could  be  no  one 
else  the  moment  I  saw  that  the  house  was 
no  longer  empty." 

She  opened  the  door  a  few  more  inches. 
His  tone  puzzled  her  by  its  familiarity.  His 
face  had  not  yet  come  into  the  ray  of  light 
which  slanted  from  the  hall  across  the  steps. 

"You  don't  recognise  me?"  he  questioned. 
"I  called  to  let  you  know  that  I  did  fetch 
that  taxi.  It's  been  on  my  mind  that  you 
thought  I  deserted  you.  Taxi-cabs  were  hard 
to  find  in  an  air-raid." 

[81] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

She  flung  the  door  wide.  "Why  it's " 

She  didn't  know  how  to  call  him  —  how  to 
put  what  he  was  into  words.  He  had  been 
simply  "the  American  officer" — that  was 
how  she  had  named  him  in  talking  with  the 
children.  He  had  been  often  remembered, 
especially  during  the  fireside  hour  when  in  im- 
aginary adventures  he  had  been  the  hero  of 
many  stories.  How  brave  she  had  made  him 
and  how  often  she  had  feared  that  he  was 
dead!  There  were  other  stories  which  she 
had  told  only  to  herself,  when  the  children 
were  asleep  and  the  house  was  silent.  And 
there  he  stood  on  the  threshold,  with  the 
same  gallant  bearing  and  the  same  eager 
smile  playing  about  his  mouth.  "Pve  al- 
ways been  loved  and  trusted;  you  love  and 
trust  me,  too"  —  that  was  what  his  smile 
was  saying  to  her. 

Her  heart  was  beating  wildly;  but  nothing 
of  what  she  felt  expressed  itself  in  what  she 
said.  "I'm  by  myself.  I've  let  the  maids  go 
out.  I'm  terribly  apologetic  for  having 
treated  you  so  suspiciously." 

[82] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

He  laughed  and  stepped  into  the  hall. 
"I  seem  fated  to  find  you  by  yourself;  you 
were  alone  last  time.  I'm  in  hospital  and 
have  to  be  back  by  ten.  Won't  you  let  me 
sit  with  you  for  half  an  hour?" 

He  had  begun  to  remove  his  top-coat 
awkwardly.  His  awkwardness  attracted  her 
attention. 

"Please  let  me  do  that  for  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  learning  to  manage.  It's  all 
right.  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  must.  Thanks." 

She  didn't  dare  trust  herself.  There  was 
a  pricking  sensation  behind  her  eyes.  She 
motioned  to  him  to  go  first.  As  she  followed 
him  up  the  stairs,  she  gazed  fixedly  at  his 
flattened  left  side,  where  the  sleeve  was 
tucked  limply  into  the  tunic-pocket.  She 
knew  that  when  she  was  again  face  to  face 
with  him  she  must  pretend  not  to  have 
noticed. 

He  entered  the  room  and  stood  staring 
round.  'The  same  old  room!  But  it  didn't 
belong  to  you  then.  How  did  you  manage 
it?" 

[83] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"Easily,  but  not  on  purpose." 

"Truly,  not  on  purpose?"  His  tone  was 
disappointed. 

"No,  not  on  purpose.  I  didn't  know  the 
name  of  the  square  or  the  number  of  the 
house  that  night.  I  stumbled  on  it  months 
later  by  accident.  It  was  still  to  let." 

"So  you  took  it?    Why  did  you  take  it?" 

"Because  I'd  liked  it  from  the  first  and  it 
suited  me,"  she  smiled.  "Why  else?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  ..." 

"Well,  say  it.  You're  just  like  Robbie. 
When  Robbie  wants  to  tell  me  something 
that's  difficult,  he  has  a  special  place  against 
which  he  hides  his  face;  it's  easier  to  tell  me 
there.  You  men  are  all  such  little  boys.  If 
it's  difficult  to  tell,  you  do  the  same  and  say 
it  without  looking  at  me." 

She  reseated  herself  beneath  the  lamp  and 
took  up  her  sewing.  "Now  tell  me,  why  did 
you  want  me  to  say  that  I  took  it  on  purpose?" 

"  I  don't  quite  know.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause, had  I  been  you,  I  should  have  taken 
it  on  purpose.  One  likes  to  live  in  places 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

where  he  has  been  happy,  even  though  the 
happiness  lasted  only  for  an  hour." 

He  wandered  over  to  the  couch  before  the 
fire  and  sat  down  where  he  could  watch  her 
profile  and  the  slope  of  her  throat  beneath 
the  lamp.  The  only  sound  was  the  prick  of 
the  needle  and  the  quiet  pulling  through  of 
the  thread.  It  had  all  happened  just  as  he 
would  have  planned  it.  He  was  glad  that 
she  was  alone.  He  was  glad  that  it  was  in 
this  same  room  that  they  had  met.  He  was 
glad  in  a  curious  unreasoning  way  for  the 
faint  fragrance  of  Jacqueminot  that  sur- 
rounded her.  It  had  been  just  like  this  at 
the  Front  that  he  had  thought  of  her  — 
thought  of  her  so  intensely  that  he  had  al- 
most caught  the  scent  and  the  rustle  of  her 
dress,  moving  towards  him  through  the  squa- 
lor of  the  trench.  Through  all  the  horror  the 
brief  memory  of  her  gentleness  had  remained 
with  him.  And  what  hopes  he  had  built  on 
that  memory!  He  had  told  himself  that, 
if  he  survived,  by  hook  or  by  crook  he  would 
search  her  out.  In  hospital,  when  he  had 

[85] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

returned  to  England,  all  his  impatience  to 
get  well  had  been  to  get  to  her.  In  his  heart 
he  had  never  expected  success.  The  task 
had  seemed  too  stupendous.  And  now  here 
he  was,  sitting  with  her  alone,  the  house  all 
quiet,  the  fire  shining,  the  lamp  making  a 
pool  of  gold  among  the  shadows,  and  she, 
most  quiet  of  all,  taking  him  comfortably  for 
granted  and  carrying  on  with  her  woman's 
work.  At  last  he  was  at  rest;  not  in  love 
with  her,  he  told  himself,  but  at  rest. 

It  was  she  who  broke  the  silence.  "How 
did  you  know?  What  made  you  come  so 
directly  to  this  house?" 

He  met  her  eyes  and  smiled.  "Where  else 
was  there  to  come?  It  was  the  one  place  we 
both  knew.  I  took  a  chance  at  it."  And 
then,  after  a  pause,  "No,  that's  not  quite 
true.  I  was  sent  up  to  London  for  special 
treatment.  The  first  evening  I  was  allowed 
out  of  hospital,  I  hurried  here  and,  finding 
that  our  empty  house  was  occupied,  stayed 
outside  to  watch  it." 

"But  why  to  watch  it?" 

[86] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"Because  it  was  a  million  to  one  that  you 
weren't  the  tenant.  Before  I  rang  the  bell 
I  wanted  to  make  certain.  You  see  I  don't 
know  your  name;  I  couldn't  ask  to  see  the 
lady  of  the  house.  If  she  hadn't  been  you, 
how  could  I  have  explained  my  intrusion?" 

"And  then  you  made  certain?" 

He  nodded.  "You  came  to  the  window  on 
Armistice  night  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
looking  out." 

"I  remember."  She  shivered  as  if  a  cold 
breath  had  struck  her.  "  I  was  feeling  stupid 
and  lonely;  all  the  world  out  there  in  the 
darkness  seemed  so  glad.  I  wish  you  had 
rung  my  bell.  That  was  three  nights  ago." 

"You  mean  why  did  I  let  three  nights  go 
by.  I  guess  because  I  was  a  coward.  I  got 
what  we  call  in  America  'cold  feet.'  I 
thought  ..." 

He  waited  for  her  to  prompt  him.  She  sat 
leaning  forward,  her  hands  lying  idle  in  her 
lap.  He  noticed,  as  he  had  noticed  nearly  a 
year  ago,  the  half-moon  that  her  shoulders 
made  in  the  dimness.  She  was  extraordi- 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

narily  motionless;  her  motionlessness  gave 
her  an  atmosphere  of  strength.  When  she 
moved  her  gestures  said  as  much  as  words. 
Nothing  that  she  did  was  hurried. 

"Tell  me  what  you  thought,"  she  said 
quietly.  She  spoke  to  him  as  she  would 
have  spoken  to  Robbie,  making  him  feel  very 
young  and  little.  When  she  spoke  like  that 
there  was  not  much  that  he  would  not  have 
told  her. 

"I  thought  that  you  might  not  remember 
me  or  want  to  see  me.  We  met  so  oddly; 
after  the  lapse  of  a  year  you  might  easily 
have  regarded  my  call  as  an  impertinence." 

"An  impertinence!"  There  were  tears  in 
her  eyes  when  she  raised  her  head.  "You 
lost  your  arm  that  I  and  my  children  might 
be  safe,  and  you  talk  about  impertinence." 

"Oh,  that!"  He  glanced  down  at  his  empty 
sleeve.  "That's  nothing.  It's  the  luck  of  the 
game  and  might  have  happened  to  anybody." 

"But  you  lost  it  for  me,"  she  re-asserted, 
"that  I  might  be  safe.  You  must  have  suf- 
fered terribly." 

[88] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

Seeing  her  distress,  he  laughed  gaily.  "  Los- 
ing an  arm  wasn't  the  worst  that  might  have 
happened.  I'm  one  of  the  fortunate  ones; 
I'm  still  above  ground.  The  thing  wasn't 
very  painful  —  nothing  is  when  you've  simply 
got  to  face  it.  It's  the  thinking  about  pain 
that  hurts.  .  .  .  HuIIoa,  look  at  the  time; 
I  can  just  get  back  to  the  hospital  by  ten. 
If  we're  late,  they  punish  us  by  keeping  us 
in  next  night." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  as  she  was  seeing 
him  out,  he  halted  and  looked  back  into  the 
room.  "It's  quiet  and  cosy  in  there.  I 
don't  want  to  leave;  I  feel  like  a  boy  being 
packed  off  to  school.  You  can't  understand 
how  wonderful  it  is  after  all  the  marching  and 
rough  times  and  being  cut  about  to  be 
allowed  to  sit  by  a  fire  with  a  woman.  I 
loved  to  watch  you  at  your  sewing." 

"It's  because  you're  tired,"  she  said, 
"more  tired  than  you  know.  You  must  come 
very  often  and  rest." 


[89] 


CHAPTER  IX 


CHAPTER  IX 

N  the  weeks  that  followed  the 
little  house  came  to  know  him 
well.  Everybody  in  the  little 
house  treated  him  as  though  his 
injury  were  a  decoration,  which  had  been 
won  especially  in  their  defence.  They  were 
prouder  to  see  him  come  walking  up  their 
steps  with  his  blue  hospital  band  on  his  re- 
maining arm,  than  if  Sir  Douglas  Haig  him- 
self had  called  upon  them.  Nobody  took 
any  count  of  the  frequency  of  his  visits  — 
nobody  except  himself.  Nobody  seemed  to 
think  it  strange  that  the  moment  the  doctors 
had  finished  his  dressings,  he  should  wander 
off  to  Dolls'  House  Square.  Nobody  seemed 
to  guess  just  how  fond  he  was  of  the  little 
lady.  He  hardly  guessed  himself.  There 
were  times  when  he  wondered  exactly  how 
fond  he  was.  He  did  not  believe  he  was  in 

[93] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

love  with  her;  the  feeling  that  he  had  was  too 
gentle.  He  had  always  understood  that  love 
was  exciting,  passionate  and  tumultuous  with 
dreads,  whereas  in  her  presence  he  knew 
neither  fears  nor  hesitancies.  He  wasn't  the 
least  in  terror  that  he  would  lose  her.  He 
felt  simply  safe,  the  way  a  ship  might  feel 
when  the  winds  had  ceased  to  buffet  and  it 
lay  still  in  a  sheltered  harbour  on  a  level 
keel.  This  feeling  of  safety  struck  him  as  an 
extraordinary  sensation  to  be  produced  in  a 
soldier  by  a  woman;  he  was  a  trifle  ashamed 
of  it,  as  though  it  were  not  quite  manly. 

While  he  spoke  with  her,  he  found  himself 
believing  with  a  child-like  faith  that  all 
women  were  mothers  and  that  the  world  was 
good.  He  knew  that  for  the  present  he  could 
not  do  without  her,  but  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
imagine  what  he  would  do  with  her  for 
always.  She  was  like  religion  —  she  went 
beyond  him,  was  bigger  and  better.  He  only 
dimly  understood  her,  but  was  comfortable 
in  believing  that  everything  hidden  was  as 
kind  as  the  part  he  knew.  In  a  strangely 

[94] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

intimate  way  he  worshipped  her,  as  a  child 
adores  his  mother,  thinking  her  the  most 
perfect  and  beautiful  being  in  the  world.  He 
discovered  in  her  a  wisdom  of  which  nothing 
in  her  conversation  gave  the  least  indication; 
her  unhurried  attitude  towards  life  created 
the  impression.  If  this  were  love,  then  all 
the  hearsay  information  he  had  gathered  on 
the  subject  was  mistaken. 

There  were  days  when,  after  his  wound  had 
been  dressed  and  he  had  left  the  hospital, 
he  made  a  pretence  that  he  was  not  going  to 
visit  her.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  mak- 
ing her  a  habit,  and  that  to  make  a  habit  of 
anyone  was  foolish.  Instead  of  going  to 
Dolls'  House  Square,  he  would  invent  some 
urgent  business  and  take  himself  off  city- 
wards. But  expeditions  in  which  she  had  no 
share  soon  grew  flat.  He  would  find  himself 
thinking  about  her,  wondering  whether  she 
was  waiting  for  him.  He  would  end  up,  as 
he  always  ended  up,  by  jumping  in  a  taxi 
and  knocking  on  her  door  in  Dolls'  House 
Square. 

[95] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

He  never  once  found  her  out.  There  was 
invariably  a  welcome  for  him.  He  would 
take  his  seat  by  the  fire  in  the  quiet  room 
and  watch  her  sewing  till  the  darkness 
deepened  and  the  lamp  had  to  be  brought 
out.  It  didn't  seem  to  matter  much  whether 
he  talked  or  was  silent;  her  contentment 
seemed  complete  when  he  was  there.  She 
made  no  effort  to  entertain  him,  which  was 
the  best  proof  of  their  friendship.  She  was 
perfectly  willing  that  he  should  ignore  her, 
if  that  was  his  mood,  by  reading  the  paper 
or  playing  with  the  children. 

Though  she  made  no  effort  to  entertain 
him,  the  entire  household  had  re-organised 
itself  in  readiness  for  his  sharp  rat-a-tat. 
Everyone,  without  "expressing  the  fact,  recog- 
nised that  it  was  nice  to  have  a  man  about 
the  house.  When  one  rose  in  the  morning, 
there  was  something  to  which  to  look  forward 
now.  A  man  dropping  in,  even  occasionally, 
gave  this  group  of  women  a  sense  of  protec- 
tion and  of  contact  with  the  unwidowed 
world. 

[96] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

To  Robbie  and  Joan  he  stood  for  something 
midway  between  a  big  brother  and  a  pal. 
They  had  sharp  rivalries  as  to  who  should 
light  his  cigarette.  It  wasn't  easy  for  him  to 
grip  the  box  between  his  knees  and  strike 
the  match  with  only  one  hand.  They  watched 
him  and  by  anticipating  his  wishes  tried  to 
constitute  themselves  his  missing  hand. 

When  they  were  with  him,  the  little  lady 
withdrew  into  the  background,  making  her- 
self so  still  and  self-effacing  that  it  scarcely 
seemed  that  he  had  come  to  see  her.  It  was 
as  though  she  had  three  children;  he  appeared 
to  be  their  friend  much  more  than  hers.  He 
would  carry  them  off  to  the  Zoo,  to  matinees 
or  to  see  the  Christmas  toys  in  the  West  End 
shops.  Sometimes  she  would  accompany 
them;  more  often  she  would  listen  to  their 
adventures  when  they  had  returned.  But  she 
never  was  really  left  out.  While  they  were 
absent  from  her,  she  formed  the  main  topic 
of  conversation.  Of  this  she  was  well  aware; 
if  she  had  not  been,  she  would  not  have  been 
so  happy. 

[97] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

In  a  way  she  derived  more  pleasure  from 
staying  at  home  and  picturing  them  laughing 
through  the  crowded  streets,  going  into  tea- 
shops,  riding  in  taxis  and  coming  back  through 
the  dusk  together.  The  children  looked  so 
proud  in  their  sole  possession  of  a  man,  es- 
pecially of  a  soldier  who  had  been  wounded. 
Had  their  father  come  through  the  war,  that 
was  how  they  would  have  looked  in  his  com- 
pany. She  was  glad  that  they  should  get 
away  from  skirts.  He  could  give  them  some- 
thing which  it  was  not  in  her  power  to  give, 
however  much  she  loved  them.  She  was 
only  a  woman.  Her  reward  followed  when 
they  returned  a  little  conscience-stricken  at 
having  left  her,  bringing  with  them  a  present 
as  indisputable  proof  that  she  had  been 
remembered. 

One  evening  in  talking  with  her  after  the 
children  had  been  put  to  bed,  he  asked  her 
if  she  didn't  think  she  ought  to  go  out  more 
often. 

"I  know  I  ought." 

"Then  why  don't  you?" 

[98] 


•     THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

She  smiled  gently,  thinking  how  little  he 
knew  of  the  world.  "When  you've  not  got 
your  own  man  to  take  you,  it's  difficult.  The 
world  moves  in  pairs.  A  woman  can't  go  to 
many  places  unaccompanied." 

"But  surely  you  don't  need  to.  You  must 
have  quantities  of  friends  who  would  be 
glad  ..." 

She  cut  him  short.  "When  a  woman  is 
left  by  herself,  she  learns  a  good  many  things 
about  men  that  she  didn't  suspect  when  she 
was  married.  The  men  she  would  trust 
herself  with  have  their  wives  or  fiancees  — 
they  have  no  time  to  trouble  over  shipwrecked 
women  like  myself.  And  the  other  kind  of 
men  .  .  .  The  world  has  no  place  for  a 
widow.  It  doesn't  mean  to  be  unkind,  but 
it  simply  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  her. 
Unmarried  women  consider  her  an  unfair 
rival;  they  think  she's  seeking  a  second  chance 
before  they've  had  their  first.  In  the 'old  days 
India  solved  the  problem  by  burying  us  with 
our  husbands.  In  England  they  do  the  same 
thing,  only  less  frankly.  It's  rather  stupid  to 

[99] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

have  to  live  and  yet  to  be  treated  as  though 
you  ought  to  be  dead.  One  fights  against  it 
at  first;  then  one  gradually  becomes  recon- 
ciled to  be  out  of  the  running.  If  one's  wise, 
she  puts  all  her  living  into  her  children." 

"But  that's  not  fair,"  he  spoke  hotly. 

"It's  the  way  it  happens." 

He  sat  frowning  into  the  fire.  What  she 
had  told  him  had  upset  all  his  preconcep- 
tions about  her.  Without  looking  at  her, 
he  re-started  the  conversation.  "  I've  thought 
of  you  as  being  so  happy.  I  always  thought 
of  you  that  way  at  the  Front.  I've  pictured 
you  as  being  perched  high  on  a  ledge  out  of 
reach  of  waves  and  storms.  From  the  first 
you've  given  me  the  feeling  that  nothing 
could  hurt  or  move  you,  and  that  nothing 
could  hurt  or  move  me  while  I  was  near  you. 
It's  a  queer  thing  for  a  man  to  admit  to  a 
woman,  but  you  make  me  feel  absolutely 
safe." 

"That's  not  so  very  queer,"  she  said,  "be- 
cause that's  the  way  you  make  me  feel." 

"Do  I?    You're  not  laughing  at  me?"    He 

[100] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

swung  round,  leaning  over  the  back  of  the 
couch,  his  entire  attitude  one  of  amazement. 

She  met  his  surprise  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"I'm  perfectly  serious.  But  you  know  the 
reason  why  we  feel  so  safe  in  each  other's 
company?  It's  because,  in  our  different  ways, 
we're  both  lonely  people.  We're  not  like 
the  rest  of  the  world;  we  don't  move  in  pairs. 
I'm  lonely  because  I'm  a  woman  on  my  own, 
and  you're  lonely  because  you're  in  hospital  in 
a  foreign  country.  We  met  just  at  the  time 
when  we  could  give  each  other  courage." 

"But  you  don't  look  lonely,"  he  protested; 
"one  always  thinks  of  lonely  people  as  being 
sad  and  untidy.  You  always  look  so  ter- 
rifically well-groomed  and  expensive.  You 
create  the  impression  that  you're  either  going 
to  or  returning  from  a  party.  I  never  saw 
you  when  you  weren't  self-assured  and  occu- 
pied. I  used  to  wonder  how  you  spared  me 
so  much  time  from  your  engagements." 

"Clever  of  me,  wasn't  it?" 

Instead  of  answering  her,  he  came  over  and 
stood  above  where  she  sat  stitching  beneath 

[101] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

the  lamp.  He  was  seeing  her  for  the  first 
time  not  as  wise,  self-reliant  and  fashionable, 
but  as  beautiful,  alone  and  unprotected.  He 
could  almost  feel  the  ache  of  the  bruises  she 
had  suffered.  He  felt  self-reproached;  what 
had  he  given  her?  Up  to  now  anything  that 
he  could  have  given  had  seemed  too  small 
to  mention.  He  had  taken  from  her  con- 
tinually, supposing  that  she  had  a  surplus  of 
everything.  And  all  the  while  she  had  been 
sharing  his  own  hunger  for  the  presents  that 
money  cannot  buy. 

"  It's  great  to  be  alive,  when  you'd  expected 
to  be  dead." 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  surprised.  She  raised 
her  head  quickly,  recognising  a  new  earnest- 
ness in  his  tone. 

"One  doesn't  talk  much  about  what  hap- 
pened at  the  Front,"  he  said;  "but  one  can't 
help  feeling  that  his  life  was  spared  for  some 
definite  purpose.  I  believe  the  purpose  was 
to  be  happy  and  to  make  others  happy.  I 
don't  want  to  hog  my  own  pleasure  any  more 
or  to  trifle  in  the  old  slovenly  ways.  I  want 

[102] 


"One  doesn't  talk  much  oj  what  happened  at  the  Front" 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

to  crowd  every  second  with  gratefulness  for 
the  mere  fact  of  living.  That's  what's  been 
bringing  me  here  so  often.  That's  why  I've 
been  so  glad  to  carry  Joan  and  Robbie  away. 
Kiddies  mean  so  tremendously  much  more  to 
me  than  they  did  before  I  nearly  died.  And 
then  there's  home  and  women.  I  took  them 
for  granted  once,  but  now  ...  It's  like  say- 
ing one's  prayers  to  be  in  a  good  woman's 
presence.  I  don't  know  if  you  at  all  under- 
stand me.  I'm  trying  to  thank  you  for  what 
you've  done.  ..." 

And  there  his  eloquence  failed,  leaving  him 
gazing  down  at  her  and  wondering  whether 
she  thought  him  foolish.  She  patted  his  hand, 
but  she  did  not  meet  his  eyes.  "  It's  all  right. 
Don't  explain.  I  know  what  you're  meaning 
to  say." 

"Do  you?"  He  spoke  doubtfully.  "I 
think  I  was  trying  to  ask  you  if  we  couldn't 
be  happy  together.  I'm  not  married  and 
I'm  not  engaged;  but  I'm  not  like  the  other 
men  you  mentioned." 

"My  dear  boy,  I  never  thought  you  were. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

If  I  had,  you  wouldn't  have  been  here.  You're 
honourable  all  the  way  through;  I  knew  that 
the  moment  I  saw  you.  Does  that  make  you 
feel  better?" 

He  laughed  happily.  "Much.  Do  you 
know  what  I  believe  I've  been  trying  to  ask 
you  through  all  this  maze  of  words?  If  I  get 
permission  from  the  doctor  to  stay  out  late 
tomorrow  night,  would  you  be  gay  and  go 
with  me  to  a  theatre?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  gladness.  "  I  should 
love  it." 


[104] 


CHAPTER  X 


CHAPTER  X 

HAT  evening  at  the  theatre  was 
the  first  conscious  step  in  their 
experiment  of  being  happy  to- 
,  gether.  She  received  word  from 
him  at  lunch-time  that  the  doctor's  permission 
had  been  granted  and  that  he  would  call 
for  her  at  seven.  The  news  made  her  as 
excited  as  if  she  had  never  been  to  a  theatre 
before  in  her  life.  She  spent  the  afternoon 
before  the  mirror,  brushing  and  re-brushing 
her  hair,  and  in  laying  out  all  the  pretty 
clothes  which  she  knew  men  liked.  It  was 
three  years  since  she  had  dressed  with  the 
deliberate  intent  that  a  man  should  admire 
her.  Once  to  do  that  had  been  two-thirds  of 
her  life.  To  find  herself  doing  it  again  seemed 
like  waking  from  a  long  illness;  she  could 
hardly  bring  herself  to  believe  that  the  monot- 
ony of  sorrow  was  ended  and  that  she  was 

[107] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

actually  going  to  be  happy  again.  She  had 
been  made  to  feel  so  long  that  to  be  happy 
would  be  disloyalty  to  past  affections. 

She  locked  her  bedroom  door,  for  fear 
any  of  the  servants  should  guess  how  she  was 
occupied.  She  was  filled  with  an  exultant 
shame  that  she  should  still  be  capable  of 
valuing  so  highly  a  man's  opinion  of  her 
appearance.  "But  I  will  be  happy,"  she  kept 
telling  herself;  "I  have  the  right."  And  then, 
in  a  whisper,  "Oh,  little  house,  you  have 
been  so  kind.  Wish  me  luck  and  say  that 
he'll  think  me  nice." 

Outside  in  the  bare  black  cradle  of  the 
trees  the  November  afternoon  faded.  Spar- 
rows twittered  of  how  winter  was  almost  come. 
Against  the  cold  melancholy  of  the  London 
sky,  like  silhouettes  crayoned  on  a  wall  of 
ice,  roofs  and  chimneys  stood  smudged.  In 
flickering  pin-points  of  incandescence  street- 
lamps  wakened;  night  came  drifting  like  a 
ship  into  harbour  under  shrouded  sails. 

She  had  been  sitting  listening  for  a  long 
time,  haunted  by  childish  fears  that  he  would 

[108] 


"  In  flickering  pin-points  oj  incandescence,  street-lamps 
wakened" 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

not  come.  At  seven  promptly  a  taxi  panted 
into  the  square  and  drew  up  wheezing  and 
coughing  before  the  little  house.  Seizing  her 
evening-wrap,  she  ran  down  the  stairs  and 
had  her  hand  on  the  door  before  his  knock 
had  sounded.  "I  didn't  want  to  keep  you 
waiting,"  she  explained. 

He  handed  her  into  the  cab.  With  a  groan 
and  a  thump  the  engine  pulled  itself  together 
and  they  made  good  their  escape.  As  she 
settled  back  into  her  corner,  pulling  on  her 
gloves,  she  watched  him.  So  he  also  had 
regarded  it  as  a  gala-night!  He  was  wearing 
a  brand-new  uniform  and  had  been  at  extra 
pains  to  make  his  boots  and  belt  splendid 
and  shiny.  She  did  her  best  not  to  be  ob- 
served too  closely,  for  her  eyes  were  over- 
bright  and  her  color  was  high.  She  felt 
annoyed  at  herself  for  being  so  girlish. 

"It's  tremendous  fun.  I  haven't  been  to 
the  theatre  in  the  evening  since  ...  for  years 
and  years,"  she  whispered.  "The  war  is 
really  ended.  I'm  believing  it  for  the  first 


time." 


[109] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

They  dined  together  at  Prince's  to  the 
fierce  discords  of  Jazz  music.  It  suited  her 
mood;  it  was  primitive  and  reckless.  Diners 
kept  rising  between  courses  and  slipping  out 
in  pairs  to  where  dancing  was  in  progress. 
The  whole  world  went  in  pairs  tonight.  And 
she  had  her  man;  no  one  could  make  her 
lonely  for  just  this  one  night.  It  was  excit- 
ing to  her  to  notice  how  much  more  they 
seemed  to  belong  to  each  other  now  that 
they  were  in  public.  He  felt  it  also,  for  he 
showed  his  sense  of  pride  and  ownership  in 
a  hundred  little  ways.  It  was  good  to  be 
owned  after  having  been  left  so  long  dis- 
carded. As  he  faced  her  across  the  table,  he 
had  the  air  of  believing  that  everybody  was 
admiring  her  and  envying  him  his  luck. 
She  was  immensely  grateful  that  he  should 
think  so.  It  was  as  though  he  could  hear 
them  saying,  "How  on  earth  did  a  one-armed 
fellow  do  it?*'  Had  they  asked  him,  he  could 
only  have  told  them,  "The  house  was  empty, 
so  I  entered."  Yes,  and  even  he  had  not 
guessed  how  empty!  But  what  had  changed 

[no] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

her?  Knowing  nothing  about  the  locked 
door  and  how  her  afternoon  had  been  spent, 
he  was  puzzled.  All  he  knew  was  that  the 
woman  whom  he  had  thought  perfect,  had 
revealed  herself  as  more  perfect.  She  had 
become  radiantly  beautiful  in  a  way  quite 
new  and  unexpected. 

Of  the  play  to  which  they  went  she  saw 
but  little;  all  she  realised  was  that  it  was 
merry  —  a  fairy-tale  of  life.  One  does  not 
notice  much  when  the  heart  is  swollen  with 
gladness.  People  sang,  and  looked  pretty, 
and  fell  in  love.  Everyone  was  paired  and 
married  before  the  curtain  was  rung  down. 
Something,  however,  she  did  remember:  two 
lilting  lines  which  had  been  sung: 

Andt  while  the  sun  is  shining, 
Make  bay,  little  girl,  make  hay. 

They  kept  repeating  themselves  inside  her 
head.  Unconsciously  in  the  darkness  as  they 
were  driving  home,  she  started  humming 
them. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  questioned. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"I  didn't  say  anything.  It  was  just  a 
snatch  from  a  tune  we  heard." 

"Was  it?    Won't  you  hum  it  again?" 

So  in  the  intermittent  gloom  of  the  passing 
lights  she  tried;  but  for  some  reason,  inex- 
plicable to  herself,  it  made  her  feel  choky. 
She  couldn't  reach  the  end.  Gathering  her 
wrap  closer  about  her,  she  drew  the  fur. collar 
higher  to  hide  the  stupid  tears  which  had 
forced  their  way  into  her  eyes. 

"I  believe  you're  crying!"  he  exclaimed 
with  concern.  "Do  tell  me  what's  the 
matter." 

"I'm  too  happy,"  she  whispered  brokenly. 

The  taxi  drew  up  against  the  pavement 
with  a  jerk.  There  was  no  knowing  what  he 
might  say  next  to  comfort  her.  She  both 
yearned  to  learn  and  dreaded.  Flight  was 
the  safer  choice.  Before  he  could  assist  her, 
she  had  jumped  out.  "Come  tomorrow  and 
I'll  thank  you  properly.  I  can't  now.  And 
.  .  .  I'm  sorry  for  having  been  a  baby." 

Catching  at  her  skirts,  she  fled  up  the 
steps  and  let  herself  into  the  darkened  house. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

Not  until  his  wheels  had  moved  reluctantly 
away,  did  she  climb  the  narrow  stairs  to  the 
room  from  which  she  had  departed  so  gaily. 
Her  solitariness  had  returned.  She  had  had 
her  own  man  for  a  handful  of  hours.  They 
were  ended. 

As  she  threw  off  her  finery,  she  could  still 
hear  that  voice  persistently  advising, 

Andt  while  the  sun  is  shining, 
Make  hay,  little  girl,  make  hay. 

In  the  darkness  she  flung  herself  down  on 
the  bed,  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow.  "I 
want  to;  oh,  I  want  to,"  she  muttered.. 


["3] 


CHAPTER  XI 


CHAPTER  XI 

OR  three  weeks  she  followed  the 
song's  advice.  No  one  knew  how 
long  happiness  would  last.  With 
her  it  had  never  lasted.  He  would 
leave  her  presently;  already  he  was  antici- 
pating an  early  return  to  America. 

"I  shall  feel  terribly  flat  when  you've 
gone,"  she  told  him. 

"But  I'll  write.  I'll  write  you  the  longest 
letters." 

"Ah,  but  letters  aren't  the  same  as  being 
together." 

He  didn't  seem  to  share  her  need  of  him, 
and  it  hurt.  If  he  did  share  it,  it  was  uncon- 
sciously. He  had  yet  to  awaken  to  what  the 
need  meant.  She  had  allowed  him  to  become 
too  sure  of  her,  perhaps;  had  she  kept  him 
more  uncertain,  he  might  have  awakened. 
In  any  case,  it  was  too  late  to  alter  attitudes 
now  and  to  think  up  reasons. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

He  liked  her  in  the  j oiliest  kind  of  way 
as  the  most  splendid  of  diversions;  but  she 
wasn't  essential  to  him  for  all  time  —  only  for 
the  present.  She  treasured  no  illusions  about 
the  longest  letters.  She  knew  men  —  the 
world  was  filled  with  women;  out  of  sight 
would  be  out  of  mind.  So  every  evening 
when  he  visited  her,  her  heart  was  in  her 
throat  till  she  had  made  him  confess  that  he 
had  not  yet  received  his  embarkation  orders. 
Some  day  he  would  tell  her  that  he  was  going 
and  would  expect  her  to  congratulate  him. 
She  would  have  to  smile  and  pretend  that 
she  was  glad  for  his  sake.  After  that  he 
would  vanish  and  the  long  eventlessness 
would  re-commence.  He  would  write  inti- 
mately and  often  at  first;  little  by  little  new 
interests  would  claim  him.  There  would  be 
a  blank  and  then,  after  a  long  silence,  a 
printed  announcement,  curtly  stating  that 
he  had  found  his  happiness  elsewhere. 

She  saw  herself  growing  old.  The  children 
would  spring  up  so  quickly.  She  would  be 
left  with  her  pride,  to  dress  and  make  herself 

[1.8] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

beautiful  for  an  anonymous  someone  whose 
coming  was  indefinitely  postponed.  Youth 
would  go  from  her.  For  interminable  even- 
ings, stretching  into  decades,  she  would  watch 
afternoons  fade  into  evenings.  Everything 
would  grow  quiet.  She  would  sit  beneath 
the  lamp  at  her  sewing.  The  whispering 
parrot  would  take  pity  on  her  and  croak, 
"What  shall  we  talk  about?"  Even  that 
game  would  end  one  day,  for  Robbie  would 
become  a  man  and  marry.  When  that  had 
happened  it  wouldn't  be  truthful  for  the 
parrot  to  tell  her  that  Robbie  loved  her  best. 
She  would  listen  for  the  clock  to  strike,  the 
fire  to  rustle,  the  coals  to  drop  in  the  grate. 
Towards  midnight  taxis  would  enter  the 
square.  Lovers  would  alight.  She  would  hear 
the  paying  of  the  fare,  the  tapping  of  a 
woman's  high-heeled  shoes  on  the  pavement, 
the  slipping  of  the  key  into  the  latch,  the 
opening  and  closing  of  the  door,  and  then 
again  the  silence.  She  would  fold  up  her 
work,  turn  out  the  lights  and  stand  alone 
in  the  darkness,  invisible  as  a  ghost. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

Ah,  but  he  had  not  sailed  yet.  "Make  hay, 
little  girl,  make  hay."  His  going  was  still 
only  a  threat.  There  was  time,  still  time. 
She  set  a  date  to  her  respite.  She  would  not 
gaze  beyond  it.  If  she  could  only  have  him 
till  Christmas! 

Meanwhile  he  kept  loyally  to  his  contract 
that  they  should  be  happy  together.  He 
gave  her  lavishly  of  his  time.  If  he  guessed 
how  much  the  gift  meant,  he  said  nothing  to 
show  it.  He  was  like  a  great,  friendly  school- 
boy in  his  cheerfulness;  he  filled  every  niche 
of  her  desire.  Now,  in  the  afternoon,  when 
he  took  the  children  on  adventures,  she 
found  herself  included.  On  the  return  home, 
he  shared  with  her  the  solemn  rite  of  seeing 
them  safely  in  bed.  Then  forth  they  would 
sally  on  some  fresh  excursion.  Always  and 
increasingly  there  was  the  gnawing  knowl- 
edge that  the  end  was  nearer  in  sight  —  that 
soon  to  each  of  the  habits  they  were  forming 
they  would  have  to  say,  "We  have  done  it 
for  the  last  time." 

We,  the  bricks  and  mortar  of  the  little 

[120] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

house,  watched  her.  We  grew  desperate, 
for  we  loved  her.  What  we  had  observed 
and  overheard  by  day  we  discussed  together 
by  night.  If  we  could  prevent  it,  we  were 
determined  that  he  should  not  go. 

"But,  if  he  goes,"  creaked  the  staircase, 
"he  may  return.  They  used  to  say  in  my 
young  days  that  the  heart  grows  fonder 
through  absence." 

"Rubbish,"  banged  the  door  on  the  first 
landing.  "Rubbish,  I  say." 

"He'll  go,"  ticked  the  grandfather  clock 
pessimistically.  "He'll  go.  He'll  go." 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  shouted  the  door  and 
banged  again. 

We  had  come  to  a  few  nights  before  Christ- 
mas. Which  night  I  do  not  remember,  but 
I  recall  that  we  had  started  our  decorations. 
Mistletoe  was  hanging  in  the  hall.  Holly 
had  been  arranged  along  the  tops  of  the 
picture-frames.  The  children  had  been  full 
of  whisperings  and  secrets.  Parcels  had 
already  begun  to  arrive.  They  were  handed 
in  with  a  crackling  of  paper  and  smuggled 

[121] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

upstairs  to  a  big  cupboard  in  which  they 
were  hidden  from  prying  eyes.  The  children 
were  now  in  bed,  sleeping  quietly  for  fear  of 
offending  Santa  Glaus.  The  little  lady  was 
in  the  room  where  she  worked,  checking  over 
her  list  of  presents.  She  had  got  something 
for  everyone  but  Robbie;  she  had  postponed 
buying  Robbie's  present  for  a  very  special 
reason  of  which  we  were  all  aware.  Perhaps 
it  was  superstition;  perhaps  a  desperate 
hope.  He  had  told  her  what  he  wanted;  it 
didn't  look  as  if  she  would  be  able  to  get  it. 
"It's  no  good  waiting,"  she  told  herself;  "I 
shall  have  to  buy  him  something  tomorrow." 

Just  then,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  thoughts, 
an  impatient  rat-tat-tat  re-sounded.  It  was 
his  unmistakably,  but  he  had  never  come 
so  late  as  this  before.  All  day  she  had  lis- 
tened and  been  full  of  foreboding;  she  had 
despaired  of  his  ever  coming.  There  was  an 
interval  after  the  door  had  been  opened, 
during  which  he  removed  his  coat.  She  could 
picture  his  awkwardness  in  doing  it.  Then 
the  swift,  leaping  step  of  him  mounting  the 

[122] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

stairs.  Why  had  he  delayed  so  long,  only 
to  come  to  her  at  the  last  moment  in  such  a 
hurry?  She  rose  from  her  chair  to  face  him, 
her  hands  clenched  and  her  body  tense,  as  if 
to  resist  a  physical  blow.  As  he  appeared  in 
the  doorway  his  lips  were  smiling.  There  was 
evidently  something  which  he  was  bursting 
to  tell  her.  On  catching  sight  of  her  face 
he  halted.  His  smile  faded. 

"What's  the  matter?    What's  happened?" 

She  unclenched  her  hands  and  looked  away 
from  him.  "Nothing." 

"There  must  be  something.  Something's 
troubling  you.  What  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself  this  evening?" 

Her  gaze  came  back  to  him.  She  smiled 
feebly.  "Wondering  whether  you  were  com- 
ing and  worrying  over  Robbie's  present." 

"Robbie's  present!  That's  nothing  to 
worry  over.  We'll  go  together  and  choose 
one  tomorrow.  I'll  have  time." 

"Time!"  She  straightened  up  bravely, 
the  way  she  had  rehearsed  the  scene  so 
often  in  her  imagination.  "Then  it's  true. 

[123] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

You  won't  be  here  for  Christmas?  You're 
sailing?" 

Her  knowledge  of  his  doings  was  uncanny. 
He  came  a  step  nearer,  but  she  backed  away. 
He  realised  her  fear  lest  he  should  touch 
her.  For  a  moment  he  was  offended.  Then, 
"My  orders  came  today.  How  did  you 
know?  It  was  what  I  came  to  tell  you." 

frHow  did  I  know!"  She  laughed  un- 
steadily. "How  does  one  know  anything? 
The  heart  tells  one  things  sometimes.  You'll 
be  busy  tomorrow  —  so  many  other  things 
to  think  about.  Robbie's  present  doesn't 
matter.  It's  growing  late  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

He  stood  astonished  at  her  abruptness. 
What  had  he  done  that  she  should  be  so 
anxious  to  rid  herself  of  him?  When  he  did 
not  seem  to  see  her  proffered  hand,  but 
stared  at  her  gloomily,  her  nerves  broke. 
"Go.  Why  don't  you  go?"  she  cried  fiercely. 
"You  know  you'll  be  happy." 

"You  want  me  to  go?"  he  asked  quietly. 

Had  she  heard  her  own  voice,  she  would 
have  given  way  to  weeping.  With  her  hand- 

[124] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

kerchief    pressed    tightly    against    her    lips, 
she  nodded. 

He  turned  slowly,  looked  back  from  the 
threshold  for  a  sign  of  relenting  and  dragged 
his  way  haltingly  down  the  stairs.  In  the 
hall  beneath  the  mistletoe  he  paused  to 
listen.  He  fancied  he  had  heard  the  mutter- 
ing of  sobbing.  So  long  as  he  paused  he 
heard  nothing;  it  was  only  when  he  began 
to  move  that  again  he  thought  he  heard  it. 
Having  flung  his  coat  about  his  shoulders, 
he  eased  his  arm  into  the  sleeve.  This  wasn't 
what  he  had  come  for  —  a  very  different 
ending! 

And  now  the  chance  of  the  little  house 
had  arrived.  Windows,  chairs,  tables,  walls, 
we  had  all  pledged  ourselves  to  help  her. 
He  attempted  to  let  himself  out;  the  front- 
door refused  to  budge.  He  pulled,  tugged  and 
worked  at  the  latch  without  avail. 

"Shan't  go.  Shan't  go.  Shan't  go,"  ticked 
the  grandfather's  clock  excitedly.  Then  the 
usual  thing  happened,  which  always  happened 
when  the  grandfather's  clock  got  excited. 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

There  was  a  horrible  whirr  of  the  spring  run- 
ning down;  the  weights  dropped  with  a  bang. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  he  listened. 
She  thought  he  had  gone.  There  could  be 
no  mistake  now;  she  was  crying  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

The  stairs  creaked  to  warn  her  as  he 
ascended.  She  could  not  have  heard  them, 
for  when  he  stepped  into  the  room  she  took 
no  notice.  She  had  sunk  to  the  floor  and 
lay  with  her  face  hidden  in  the  cushions  of 
the  chair,  with  the  gold  light  from  the  lamp 
spilling  over  her.  For  some  moments  he 
watched  her  —  the  shuddering  rise  and  fall 
of  her  shoulders. 

"You  told  me  to  go,"  he  said.  "The  little 
house  won't  let  me;  it  was  always  kind  to 
us."  And  then,  when  she  made  no  answer, 
"It's  true.  I've  got  my  sailing  orders.  But 
it  was  you  who  told  me  to  go." 

She  was  listening  now.  He  knew  that, 
for  the  half-moon  shoulders  had  ceased  to 
shudder.  The  smell  of  Jacqueminot  drew  him 
to  her.  Bending  over  her,  he  stole  one  hand 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

from  beneath  the  buried  face.  "Do  I  need 
to  go?" 

And  still  there  was  no  answer.  It  was 
then  that  the  old  grey  parrot  spoke.  He  had 
pretended  to  be  sleeping.  "What  shall  we 
talk  about?"  he  whispered  hoarsely;  and, 
when  an  interval  had  elapsed,  "Robbie?" 

The  little  lady,  who  had  needed  to  be 
loved,  lifted  up  her  tear-stained  face  and 
the  wounded  officer  who  had  wanted  rest, 
bent  lower. 

"I  don't  need  to  go,"  he  whispered.  "I 
came  to  bring  you  Robbie's  present.  He 
told  me  what  he  wanted." 


THE    END 


[-27] 


A    001  219090    6 


